I think Westerners, and Americans especially, struggle with “autofiction” since their conceptions of self are so fixed.
Do you remember the names of everyone you swallow
One of your axolotls has eaten the other
and every week you clean its twenty-litre tank
of cannibal excrement.
Here’s the plan: we’ll become high-class prostitutes. “Courtesans,” I say, “like ancient Greece.”
i look like eurotrash
in your red sweatshirt
and blue sweat shorts but
Jay arrived once a week, every week, for sex. He was a dental student, worked Wednesdays at a clinic near my house so it was easy for him to call to see if I was free. I made sure that I was. He
tree tree tree tree calvin calv hobbes
with an introduction from Matt Bell
I know that I should be sad, or at least look sad, or somber, as I go through the things in Johnny’s room.
A man was arrested for creating a labyrinth in an IKEA.
DeMisty Bellinger is the rarest of writers: the poet-novelist. She edits poetry at Malarkey Books and Porcupine Literary, but she’s also known for her incredible prose. (Despite what you read later in
doesn’t know how to give a PROPER blowjob
The spittle
of the sea
otherwise known as Jamaica Pond
dries hard on her eros:erring:elbow still deeper
resonating
in her
At three months shy of 36—one year past my baby deadline—I was nowhere near finding someone lasting
Wary, ever vigilant, we peered into the berries for the blind white cursor blinking in an ecstasy of juice, carving invisible holes from the inside out.
I don’t respond and two hours later he sends a photo of the dog.
Alice sighs in the way only British people can sigh. Maybe it’s all the rain they have inhaled.
We went back and forth, hyping each other up, talking about the best summer of our lives and how we would never be this young again and if we pet an alpaca everyone would be jealous.
Wind, always strongest by water, whistles and whooshes, knocks a girl off her feet.
I am searching for the type of room that would change my life if I lived there, you know the one.
“Bandeau,” I type into the Tumblr search bar. The results load like a quilt of skin.
Jordan lit a post-coital cigarette and contemplatively stared at the ceiling.
“My ex was a Nazi,” he said.
“What?”
The room smelled like milk and sweat. I only got up for a few reasons; to crack a window, to change a diaper, to eat, and occasionally, to go for a walk.
I'm waiting for influenza in Virginia. Or the taste of something metal.
Tracey, what am I meant to do with all this shit?
Party snacks
platters of them
orange and puffed up
Moloko rasping from a corner
there’s an awareness of space, of bug spray
You know what’s sad? When no one releases your sex tape.
And then there is the question of motherhood. And how it does or doesn’t fit into the feminist narrative, into our ideas of ourselves as liberated women.
Girls with blue hands
I
Psychopathology
in the woods
Naked snow
Cold, bare thighs
keep the snow white.
Tie around a tree
Hide your ruby
ring in the dirt
Rub your hair
against the
