According to my parents, I was obedient from birth—I emerged in silence and then slept through the night. I was just never interested in rebelling—even as a “punk,” I got good grades and was always home by curfew.
I didn't imagine you could grow into your harness, that it could embed in your skin, that you could plod one circle for so long that actually stopping would open up the ache in your body.
And it is easy, so easy / to welcome them into the poem.
The wind isn’t really knocked out of you. When you fall, you panic, hold your breath, tense every muscle.
The killer dispatched the boyfriend easily in the kitchen, and then he had an idea.
Here’s a statistic: After reading Brian Oliu’s Enter Your Initials For Record Keeping, I’ve spent more of my life reading Oliu than playing basketball.
This was a painstaking choreography of getting whacked in the balls.
Yes, the girl says, / thus entering into an unspoken agreement / that a black shirt with prints of golden parrots and martini glasses / is the only requisite balm.
somewhere on the internets, in a dusty archived sent folder and a long forgotten inbox is our turn to Genesis chapter two verse eight
Sheila Heti’s words penned: BLOW-JOB ARTIST. I have always wanted to be everything to everyone.
At one point, Justin’s stick got swatted and went flying. He hesitated for a moment, before strut-skating to the bench. This is not something a hockey player would normally do, just leave an unbroken stick on the ice during a non-competitive game. Someone eventually pushed the stick over to the dark team’s bench. “Pick it up,” Tony heard him say. For a second, Tony thought Justin was talking to him. Turns out he was talking to his bodyguard.
