13/09/2017
The Liminal Space is constitutionally unrecognized. The liminal space is falling in love with a mess. The liminal space is a sustained honesty. The liminal space is leaving the van, with the dog, the boy, the open michelada, to go inside and job hunt. The liminal space is the bunny taking up a corner—prime real estate in the current market. The liminal space is the cats reclaiming their domain after the dog leaves, the bunny convinced a dog is around every corner. The liminal space is triple booking: a writing session, a workshop, a date. The liminal space is not swallowing your disappointment. The liminal space is loving anyway. The liminal space is owning your triggers. The liminal space is letting people see you, scabs and all. The liminal space is two seahorses, cut from blue paper, wearing aqua bow ties around their neck, kissing. The liminal space is a small space, a house on mango street, a guide to flash fiction writing. The liminal space is a grown version of lucy, the purple dress wearing doll of your childhood, now in eco friendly green with wings and the same yarn hair, staring at you from the shelf next to the stone mermaid. The liminal space is this guttural hunger in the morning for cheese slathered foods, a regular exercise routine, the money that will make it all work and lots of love making. The liminal space is where all the things you owe and are owed mingle, create ownership and debts of their own. The liminal space is a pocket knife security blanket, a raunchy s*x party that ruins the night, though the bean shaped pool glows welcoming; the liminal space is the swatting away of propositions to conjoin in what would be merely fu***ng; the liminal space is how quickly her foot makes its non-consensual way into the front of his bathing suit and he pulls me onto him as a version of no; the liminal space is a perpetual wednesday morning
