It’s mosquitos swarming and the screen door slapping against / the hickory frame as my body is stretching out of girlhood
There’s something in your sleeping breath / that reminds me of a hermit crab gathering
The world is made of string, / all held together, tangled, tripping / though resting on quantum foam
Wood smoke cannot be contained, / though persuaded to linger / in the slope of your shoulder
I fell from a dock in the summer / split my hand open like a ripened fig
She never told me, but I knew the way she slept in mango trees
As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.
I've been working hard on the same story for months. Years, really. I know I've mentioned that before, but sometimes it's hard for me to get my head wrapped around. My thesis has consumed every bit of me and there doesn't seem like an end in sight. The goal has been to write out fifty pages every week, which is an ambitious goal. Sure, I write quickly, but that much output is exhausting.
I felt a pinch in my palm: a rosebud sprouted from my life line.
For months and months and months I've tried to get my shitty short stories published. They haven't been (because they're shitty, obviously). So, in an attempt to move some of them out into the world, I give you this. Surrealist fiction (which is what I want to call this) is not my wheelhouse, but it was sweet, sweet torture to write. Thank you for reading, as always!