Black Hole Sun

Fingertips have memories. It's not my fingertips so much as my right palm that remembers you, remembers being infused with Jil Sander from holding your hand in frame. Long fingers, light grip, perpetually dry palm. It's amazing to me that some time during that time, while I was falling in love with ballroom and the body sensations it gave me, you had a doctor's appointment where you found out you had AIDS. I know you're dead now, but I still carry that in my body. Such a tragedy, the way beautiful people and things get taken from us and the ugly things remain. Why should the Wolf be alive and you're not? I find myself living a collection of people - no, living for a collection of people. In memory of. Always for others, myself last. That's such a terrible habit. Such a tragic embodied narrative. It's not my fingertips that remember you were the first person who's clothing I ever noticed. The way clothes can project who you are in this world, or who you're trying to be. The aspiration and truth in your heart. There's so much hardness around my knowing you and being in your company.

That whole story was me in an Edgar Allen Poe story. Walled in, bricked in, trapped in a wall - masons holding shovels and wet cement all around me. But my fingertips remember wrapping over your dry palm. Gentlemanly palm. Fragrant, non-threatening palm. And your silvery blonde hair. And your hair flip. And bitchily pursed lips. And the way your eyes had that twinkle like all the best gays do, no matter how desperately I didn't want you to be. Gay. Far away from and disinterested in me, except as a pet. When everyone else wanted a different kind of pet from me and they still do. I've been cursed to be able to feel it my whole life.

Now my looks are starting to go, and all I'm left with is this golf ball in my throat and this grief in my lungs. The terrible memory of my fingertips right after you died. When they went hollow. They felt ashamed. They missed you and had no idea how to say so. Fingertips carry memories and so many of mine hurt or feel threatening. Thank you for that tiny slice of time when you gave me something different.

🎧 Bring This Prompt into Your Own Body

The essay you just read began as a prompt inside the Body Writers Circle. We take our prompts from song lyrics and write whatever our bodies want to say. If your own body feels full or unsafe to exist in today, I invite you to try this gentle Body Writing™ practice:

Set the Mood: 

Get cozy, plug in headphones and sink into this week's featured song on Spotify.

Listen:

Close your eyes. Don't worry about the lyrics or what they mean intellectually. Just notice how the rhythm, melody and vibe affect your body. What do you feel opening up and coming forward?

Write:

Open your journal and write the opening lyric (Fingertips have memories) at the top of your page. Don't try to match my writing; just notice: what does it bring up for you? What does it make your body want to say? Write for three pages – without editing, censoring yourself or trying to make your writing "good."

Why Journaling Alone Is Only the First Step

While practicing this alone can bring beautiful moments of connection and relief, trying to navigate your deepest, most intense stories alone is a big ask for a sensitive nervous system. When you're the only one holding the pen and the space, your inner critic takes charge easily, causing you to freeze up or pull back before finding the deeper medicine.

True somatic resolution requires co-regulation.

Which is why doing this work inside an ultra-intimate, zero-critique group of just 5 to 6 women changes everything. In the Body Writers Circle, you don't carry emotional weight by yourself. The shared presence of our tiny, trusted community holds space for you – allowing you to feel safe venturing into the depths your body needs without freezing or flooding.

If you feel a quiet, resonant yes to this, you belong with us. 

A new, founding member circle is opening soon. (June 2026)

Add your name to the waitlist here, for first access to a space. 💗