A collection of published work.
Atrani is situated less than half a kilometre from the town of Amalfi. If you’ve travelled the coastline of the fabled Italian Riviera and did not stop at Atrani, it is likely you never even noticed it. You can hold your breath as you pass through; a single breath, and the town would have flashed past your windows in a hazy blur.
When I was 19, I was asked if I would consider bleaching the moles off my face.
Sitting in the promising space of a modelling agency, I hid my shock as the agent dangled the fantasy of what could be, if I followed their strict projection into the fashion world.
“If we were an agency in New York, that would be the first thing we would do.”
I’m walking to the chemist to purchase waterproof Band-Aids.
Gravel crunches under my sneakers as I tread past flocks of sunburnt tourists flying by on their rickety scooters. The backpack I’m wearing sticks to the small of my back, sweat gluing my clothes to perpetually damp skin. When I get back to my room, I’m planning on cutting myself, and I need the Band-Aids to cover the incisions.