My coffee tastes of self-imposed loneliness.

Dear Matilda, You are the nicer version of Stephen King's Carrie, and my 6-year-old self was enthralled.

My mother and father are sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, and I’m sitting at the head of it.

 Her deep black locks cascade across my forehead in a whimsical fashion as if they were parading down an empty runway, giggling and twirling only for me and my eager camera.