Kailyn Chadwick

Hi, my name is Kailyn and you can call me just that. I’m from around here, from a home full of kids, love and emptiness. I’m just like you, except I’m not. I don’t look like you, sound like you or think like you. I’m made of my mother, a woman brimming with love, acceptance and some loneliness and a father who feels familiar but I know nothing about but I live for his accolades. Two sisters and a brother who look up to me, hopefully for all the right reasons, one can only hop

When we met I was dipped in tragedy and wrapped in remote solace. With a cherry on top of course. Now in my brief intermission of objective perspective I find I have the same reservations. Is this where I begin? Or should I start with when? I told my daddy I loved him and he told me to go to bed. I told my mother I wish I was dead, she held her head. When grandpa died, I pinched him so hard my fingers bled. I don’t remember much from my childhood and I’m not sure I want to,

And what do I know about belonging? I asked him, the one with silver hair. I can’t look ahead so instead I look down at the carpet through gray foggy eyes. A simple subject at first, yet the more I ponder it, it seems to become convoluted beyond approach. I surmise that it’s related to a feeling of safety. When do you feel safe? A byline I also can’t speak to. So, I go forth and, in the days to come I began to think that many of the things and spaces that I belong to are ones