"The First Time I Called Myself His Girl" and "You Google Drive-Thru Margaritas"
Yoda’s thirst provided more difficult than anything he had faced on the planet before. He did not have running water, and couldn’t just pop down to Pel’Kiha’s Corner Store anymore.
There was a time I had a flower in my mouth...
Going to work after you’ve been on an meth bender in a brothel is not a good idea,
Previously on...
Part 5 || Part 4 || Part 3 || Part 2 || Part 1 || Prologue
I ask because, of course, I haven’t heard from our assassin.
Sangria at a soup shop. Pieces of peach and apple in the wine. The skin of the fruits unpeeled in my mouth. Sangria even though it was winter, early evening, cold and already dark out. Goblet-sized,
It’s a Tuesday at 3 pm, which means it’s time for my therapist to remind me that I am a victim of a violent crime.
The house on Olean street stands as it once did, a formerly bright white house, the sidings been torn off, revealing dark greenish-black shingles. This house, the black sheep of the neighborhood.
"sorry to ping / i just want to know who was too good for who..."
My father locked his children up in a house for years for fear that they would die of pesticides from plants. More than that, we were locked in our rooms with a gate.
There’s a story my father used to tell from his days as an ER resident. An old lady showed up for care, and when he asked her what had brought her in, she calmly raised a hand, showing him her palm. It was pierced straight through with a long darning needle.
Bet you’ve only made lahmajoon from scratch once. Bet you’ve made pierogi dough once. Bet your attempts at grandma’s pilaf recipe are crunchy and undercooked, noodles burnt, stuck to the bottom of the pot.
I approached looking at thirst traps like I did those Magic Eye 3D posters I’d stared at as a kid. If I stared long enough, I believed, I could see something real in those thirst traps.
One day, I end up on the side of the road next to a bobcat who is thrashing after being hit by a car.
I -- Book
In every house of our memories, there is a book. In the basement of mine, there is a paperback with pictures of the sea.
The underwater camera is smeared with the blurriness of
Bread has its own history, its own holiness. Flour was pounded from prehistoric plants then roasted on the hot stones of Neanderthal fires. Ancient Egyptians milled grain between giant rocks, dark, mixed flour, imperfect loaves with heady scent.
The first six months I took hormones I was frumpy and ridiculous looking. I didn’t know anything about makeup or styling
This is how I want to remember us: the tattered rooster blanket, the wine bottle with a pen through the cork, Herc’s fur in tumbleweeds in the grass, Audrey’s red fingernails...
more intimate with the fit of a Gildan
shirt versus this thing hovering some
distance over my head always threatening
grey blonde grey depending on mood
secrets held in pinprick dots
Because you are ten, pink skin streaked with freckles and sunscreen, sea salt on your lips as you run your tongue around your ice-cream, and a man with a grey wire moustache puts his hand on your leg and asks your mum when he can marry you, and the sand of his handprint sticks to your skin no matter how hard and raw you scrub it.
