You were never going to let me, a Hindu atheist, walk down an aisle, in front of your parents to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” (ok, my fantasy).
I. xaxaxaxa
I don’t consider myself esoteric or mystical, but while tidying my desk I found a little square
sticker with just the number 8 on it; I think it fell off the new t-shirt I was
In Morocco, a long time ago, I was orphaned.
- Her: 7 hours, 13 minutes
- Me: 24 minutes
One grotesque morning, our friend Dani—frequent companion in cocaine-fueled escapades—stumbled from the spare room, blacked-out, around sunrise.
At six years old, I wanted to be a boy. I cut my hair short. I wore blue shorts. I ran around with my shirt off. I threw oranges at my sister and her friends.
On the television, Paul Hollywood is doling out handshakes - I'd settle for eye contact from my husband-
We landed on Court TV but didn’t watch it. We talked for five hours.
I suggested we arm wrestle as I did with every boy. I was a pick me and for my spreadsheet.
It is the night before I will meet my future ex wife. Neither of the mirrors are skinny.
It was summer heat
And the breath of living someone else’s life
Sisters remain sisters even when one is going through nuclear-grade poisoning and the other is directing a DIY haircut through a phone screen.
I was a woman obsessed, before and after the overdose.
The thing about being a lesbian in New York City is that on the third Thursday of any given month you’ll have to stand in a hot Brooklyn bar that is absolutely teeming with gay people. At least four
We finish dinner and the waiter comes with shots of limoncello for the table.
64
What violence is there in giving someone a name, carving out Ida's real name
of these fourteen strips, lacing up the endless observations each day
in the deformed images of words that tell
I don’t want anything serious. But come to raves with me. Take drugs with me!
I laugh and say, “is that a Rupi Kaur poem?”
Over coffee, he told me he thought I dumped him last time because we had sex too soon.
Her umbilical right to intimacy makes me wonder if I ever left the womb.
The pain reminds me: I am here. I am real. I matter.
Did I want to fuck her? Or did I want to be her?
It’s the question everyone asks but I’ve never felt it until now.
The hamster was actually a mouse. We were calling a lot of things by the wrong names back then.
why does it feel so much harder to see something happen to someone else than have it happen to you?
"I loved reading Exit, Carefully. It’s unusual, and in my opinion exciting, to publish a play without previously receiving a major production."
-Walker Caplan, Lithub
