Evening | Caroline Klidonas

Post-dinner, colander still in the sink. I’m on my knees, thrusting a barbed plastic stick into my shower drain. Clot after clot of hair, milky grey, what looks like wet paper. And the smell—my stomach muscles kick.

Yesterday, a doctor said the words toxic liver, cystic ovaries—explains your cratered skin, the blank cotton pads every month, that dull ache knocking around your pelvis.

If it goes on, you can’t have kids. Continue reading “Evening | Caroline Klidonas”