part one

I told the boy that when I want to write, it is a feeling in my throat. A physical push forward. I am a girl, but I can think of it like a metaphorical erection, the semen coming out of my mouth. It is not something I want to do, sometimes, and sometimes it is.… Continue reading part one

writing: literary suicide note

There was no newness to anything anymore. She sat in the house and waited for people to be finished; she sat on the couches and watched the clouds pass over the fields outside the windows; the windows were perpetually dirty, smudged sometimes when the cats shoved their homesick faces against the glass and mostly smudged… Continue reading writing: literary suicide note

writing: the cousin

The lights dimmed in the room and she left quickly. She did not want to see his face when he came in. It had been six months and she did not want to look at him. The picture was in her head, aggressive in clarity. She did not have to look. She left and stood… Continue reading writing: the cousin

writing: the holiday girl

not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know… Continue reading writing: the holiday girl

writing: in these years, we just give up

When I woke up my teeth were sticky with plaque; this is the fourth or maybe the sixth time this week I have woken up and remembered that last night, I did not brush my teeth. Last night, I did not do anything, except lie on the floor and eat the chocolate taffy from Wisconsin… Continue reading writing: in these years, we just give up