She offered the poison on the tip of a spoon.
A couple months ago my mother and I had to dig up my grandmother's grave. I looked away from her face. My mother didn’t: her eye is gone, her skin is gone, and her mouth is a big hole.
Three months out of the year I get to file for unemployment. I swim, I paint, and I try not to fuck things up. I have a real tendency to fuck my life up.
If I got what I wanted I would actually be doing what I’d wanted to do all along, step inside not history, but living art itself. And for this I would undoubtedly be considered a bad mother—many easily burning me at the stake.
I have developed an awareness / Of my need to perform this fervor / And what I thought was fear / Turned out to be excitement.
My girl smells like maple syrup and hay.
Fiction or nonfiction
Autofiction :)
Record-breaking heat today and tomorrow and tomorrow.
She was meditating with me / And eventually she was gone licked up by the surf / On a personal level, expressed in a fiction / That was the breadth of my loving and no thing more
An interlocutor here, is always the audience.
The depression soon followed like a familiar friend who I had hoped to leave behind.
Writer you’d like to meet irl
I've met enough
These untamed wild horses galloping inside these Trojan hearts / Like that beach that one summer / This one summer, it is all we get
/ Slipping through our fingers like the sands of Ios where Homer lay in dust
Video after video, she became a fan in front of the camera, leaving her future self a playlist of nostalgia.
Could it really be true that Betsey actually let him put his fingers inside her? In both holes, as they reported? How could he do that to Betsey with the Guess jeans, glossy hair, and big boobs?
I loved you better as a vague notion. Better / as an uncountable thing. Better /
as an assembly of dog treats.
I grass-skied down the camp hill in my non-specialist shoes, drifted into the icy endzone with the kids,
Our social circles had overlapped for more than a decade. To everyone here, I was first an old acquaintance, a fixed figure of their long past. Not the person I was today.
I showed up at a bar that served free meatballs in a red slip I bought at my local Chinese dollar store, hoping to get high on a charmed stranger.
I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose.
I feel a change coming on. I want to travel more. I want to visit Vietnam, and Transylvania; I want to watch the sun go down along the Nile.
Murray would be my only American-born super. He was big and fat and had a very productive-sounding cough and he always dressed in the same dirty white T-shirt and the same baggy corduroy pants whenever I saw him—summer, winter, spring and fall.
Meaghan Garvey knows well the hypnotic power the road holds for introspection as well as the inherent humanity one can find among the regulars at those solitary dive bars.
