There wasn’t anything to say, or to do, but there was this terrible feeling as though one of these things was the thing desperately in need of pursuing.
good afternoon, passengers. this is your captain speaking. first of all, i would like to welcome everyone to my midlife crisis.
Every time I write it comes out far too dramatic. Everything feels so insidious right now. Everything feels so precarious right now. Everything has fallen into place.
The knife turns, but blood in your teeth isn't poetic, even when I almost enjoy it
Then, my ex decided that they had to move to New York to build community around doing shrooms, eating olives, and working for NYC Health
He’s dreaming. I can touch him softly when he sleeps. I can watch his body heave and rest. We need this.
I quit writing all the time and then I get a job and I can pretend for about a year. But then the words have built up in my head, and I start to think, “Ok, I can be homeless and it won’t be that big of a deal because I can write in libraries
I felt the snap. A fool outrunning the weather, only to find out I was still too much.
I understand.
Really, I do. I've heard enough compliments to recognize the attraction I carry behind me. I can see why you needed to reach out and grab hold, like a mirage that might disappear as I
Online, I see a lot of writers waxing poetic and posting memes about wanting to get into journalism and publishing based on what they saw growing up in Almost Famous, The Devil Wears Prada, 13 Going on 30, etc. I was raised on those movies, and raised – in the first five years of my life – surrounded by writers and editors. Both of those influences made me feel like writing was not only a viable career path, but a very glamorous one too.
Masterpiece
I see the world askew.
There’s a storm inside
my window,
inside my gemstone eyes.
There’s an army
in my fist,
fighting all my friends.
So, bring me splattered
He imagines regaling his girlfriend, who is sound asleep across the house, underfucked and on her way out soon, out of his life, that is, a fact unacknowledged by either but appreciated by both, with the news that he’s caught a cockroach.
A man without a story is of no interest to the living.
I tried to see another way / and you shimmered / glitch-like / like a god.
Her love can grow 18 feet in a year / roots deeper than a well / Her appetite can leave you hollow / pulling away, yet drawing near
Sometimes, I find myself fantasizing, in a dissociative state where Everything Everywhere All at Once is not just a movie but a real possibility
BABY ANGEL
I waited for her to arrive. We planned to drive to the desert, camp in the shadow of sandstone boulders. On Monday, her tire blew out. On Tuesday, she slept late, too late to set
In the years since my own trip, at 23, I’ve grown generally more wary of people. Have developed a much needed cynicism when it comes to random acts of generosity.
The nuclear fission that generated heat should not have been survivable after one hour.
The room is small and empty and unfamiliar. A pool of vomit in the corner. Cigarette butts ground into yellow carpet. What seem to be streaks of blood coat the walls. It looks like it smells like shit, but all he can smell is the piss in his costume.
These days the dead feel / more alive than the living
I was excited at the idea of killing a man, because I thought I really deserved it.
In winter, a year and a half ago, a patrol car escorted me to a shelter. I had just begun processing the dissolution of a ten-year relationship when I found myself unhoused. After my first night in the shelter, I woke to a text from my ex-girlfriend: you’ll thank me one day.
“Björk.”
“That explains it.”
I’m sorry my body keeps becoming a metaphor. / I’m sorry I kissed every sign looking for the thing it signified. / I’m sorry I wanted proof.
i don't own a time machine / so here i am gargling syrup / at waffle house at 2:13 a.m.
