by Jessica Klimesh
She was terrified of small spaces, of keyhole openings and elevators with room for only one, so she bought a shoebox to live in, and shrunk herself in the dryer. You have to face your fears, her therapist had said. She decorated the shoebox with doll furniture and glitter like a grade-school diorama, then moved herself to a community of miniatures, where her Fisher-Price neighbors marveled at her limbs and realistic facial features. You’re not like us, they said. She said no, of course not, and then, as if to prove it, she dressed and danced in togas of Kleenex, remembering how, years ago, she’d stuffed her bra with tissues, how all her friends did, too. Just trying to fit in.
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Jessica Klimesh is a writer and editor with words–mostly flash–in a variety of literary journals. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.
