Words by Sophia Chakma Hill.
Browsing: Creative
A grandmother’s annual ritual.
Every night, like clockwork…
If they think of us as eyelashes, we shall be the eyelash people.
On clutter and holding onto the past.
An open letter to ballet.
Writer’s block, imposter’s syndrome, and ruby-hilted swords.
What I remember best about it; Was the way the red clay; Clung to her fur like leaves.
On climate grief and fading hope.
It’s a place to grow, and learn, for sure, but always a stop along the way to some destination.