For the sky’s warmth. For the green lights that let me flow. For the red lights that remind me to be patient.  For owning a bicycle. For the construction worker pointing to the traffic and laughing, saying, “What have you done?”. For the meaty body squeezed into transparent Spandex of the cyclist in front of me on Wellington Road. For the bug that bounced off my closed lips a moment after I closed my mouth. For people who bounce when they walk. For letters from people reminding me that I’m magnificent. For ZARA, for its people, for its surprise gift card. For Afifa, who said that any time with me in invaluable. For Laryssa who had the sense not to hug me when you told her but surprised me with chocolate later. For Dani who said, “Don’t talk, just go,” when I walked into work and burst into tears. For the ways people come back into my life. For Ellie, for her stories about fucking 65 year old men. For the Aboriginee with the grey perm humming to Bob Dylan, reminding me of my Dad. For my father and his silver pony-tails, his cigars, his foray into massages and fire dragon therapy. For my mother who, just by being, reminds me of the kind of woman I want to be: strong, warm, liberal, witty. For being Greek and carrying the history, the sensitivity, the pride, the wisdom, the filotimo in your blood. For my nails that have grown out again. For my body that can move and dance and sigh. For the peachy breasts that hormones give me. For feeling comfortable enough to wear little purple shorts. For the moments I feel complete. For the womb-y days of freedom and possibility. For the man at the grocery store that said I looked tanned and gave me a cupcake. For feeling beautiful and sensual, for feeling men’s eyes eat me up. For being free again to find someone that is not intimidated by me or how he feels about me. For finding the strength to keep going. For myself, for choosing not to be overwhelmed by pain anymore. For pain, for its gift of compassion. For letting myself believe that I deserve to like myself, to feel beautiful, to be loved.


Published by


I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s