A man of God told me once that self-mythologizing is

the greatest sin. He asked me what I prayed for and I could not answer, 

from my paper mouth. It became a fig tree, blossoming, rooting

me in depth and height distractions. The fig tree was God but the tree 

was me but the tree was Her, and She was so beautiful that Her sustenance 

became my veins. The winter blessed me before the blossoms could end, 

told me to freeze myself out / mark that shit down / carry the weight of the 

eighteenth year on my shoulders like a haunch. I could talk to Her

only in my head, for my mouth was lead, for my mouth was bitter citrus,

for my mouth was coffee grounds and salt. How to taste what I could say,

vowels dying succinctly on my tongue as synapses fired in maligned combat.

She blessed my marrow with angler fish and rye, reassured inflamed tissue that the leaves are

red, too. We still message privately on Twitter (M, i want u 2 / cut me open . dig around inside of

me / + find the part that is . missing / the slip of skin i swallowed 4 years ago : and have been

hunting 4 ever since ////). 

I think maybe She was the original diarist, saving Herself from deserted loneliness and 

replacing it with a self-mockery of sin. 

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Livvy Linz Winkelman is a writer and poet currently pursuing their BA in Sociology with minors in Anthropology and Creative Writing. Her work has been published in Mister Magazine’s Mister Web, Crab Apple Literary, and Divinations Magazine and she is currently interning as a staff writer for Daughterzine.