These days the dead feel / more alive than the living

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.

I was excited at the idea of killing a man, because I thought I really deserved it.

“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.

I hadn’t written a line of prose in years. I was a corporate machine running on fumes, yet this girl in a G-string was playing the oracle.

Loving Someone with Borderline Personality Disorder instructs you to maintain boundaries

My task is to record, photograph and label every item the unclaimed dead leave behind. Each file arrives in a brown envelope stamped Housing Bureau - Unclaimed. The instructions are clear: take nothing, feel nothing, sign all pages.

I felt really supported and loved when Chelsea cut her bangs too.

“We should be making deals,” Chloe said.

“Healthy competition,” I said.

“I don’t have any Twitter followers,” I said

I got my period the moment we got to the hotel. Getting my period wasn’t going to affect any of my plans, and was no big deal, really, aside from the fact that I refuse to pay attention to my body so am always completely surprised when my period comes. As such, I had brought no supplies to Miami with me.

You have a great deadpan delivery that lends itself to humor. You’re so quiet, and yet so fucking hilarious.

It’s funny cos I try so hard to be expressive and everyone always gets deadpan.

Tara and I were impressed by the Goth subculture Goth Ryan and Tara’s boyfriend took part in not just because of the black strappy clothes, black fingernails, and heavy eye makeup (which we immediately began imitating), but also their directness and openness about feelings of sadness and rottenness. 

Doodles had no memory of life before the circus.

It was over by the apples where I noticed her. She was reaching for a Braeburn, smelling it, and when she looked to her right, I saw her face. Pretty. Pale skin and dark eyes. So familiar.

Where

hella errands before dark / hella bros still on the clock

Blue auras transmitted in a backroom, patched / by metal through our fingertips. The reality of my / posture in Polaroid, bloated figure at home in some / crowning, dispiriting frieze.

One day we were instructed to pair up for a meditation.  Our mats were side by side

In a house, lungs are the window. Organs, vases on shelves in rooms. Visitors are light.

they’re starting to appeal to women
who had written them off as lunatics.

That night, I spent hours scrolling reels on Instagram. I stopped to watch a monkey on skis.

The women and I had met in a 12 step program
So there were things we didn’t tell each other
And one of my things was
I’d written a comedy special years ago
In the heart of my alcoholism
Which is when, I guess,
You’re most likely to write
A comedy special

I must have turned bright red as I watched him spin, dance and sing.

Everyday hajj to the blackdesk obelisk. 

Train back and forth.

I am five minutes tall, seated at my desk.

I shrink by seconds, bored and melancholic.

The nineteen year olds in the grocery section who tell me I look like Wednesday are yelling into their walkie talkies.