In those days, it was popular to ask, What would Jesus do? I crucified myself for days.
Look longingly
out the window. Wait for myself to come home.
We shouldn’t have become friends. Everything about our separate lives suggested we wouldn’t meet—me in the comfort of my sunny Los Angeles home, framed by blue skies, and Frank confined by barbed wire
The hamster was actually a mouse. We were calling a lot of things by the wrong names back then.
Silly’s hands were tangled in his hair. His gaze snapped back to mine. “You didn’t hurt me, Elle. Not at all.”
One time years ago, a friend threw herself a birthday party and bought her own birthday cake, which I found surprising. She said, of course I bought my own cake. Who else was going to do it? I think it’s the same with book promotion. You have to buy your own cake, and make an event of it.
Somebody is going to roofie them, I said. Dave laughed uncertainly.
It was the summer of 2018, and I had just returned home to California from Italy, where my relationship exploded after we had lived together for only four months.
He warned me once about being all-in with poetry.
I look at the curtain. I haven’t touched the red box since my new friend from Russian class opened it. It feels like a different object now that she’s touched it.
You are not proud of the answers you’ve given him. But as you leave, it strikes you – you are proud you’ve answered him with the truth.
Perhaps this is why trans people crave romantic love with a curdling, obscure undercurrent of self-doubt, of rage.
When you rearrange my insides you leave me for dead.
I think the interview went pretty well, although at one point I remember asking the interviewer to speak slower this time, using simpler words, words with no syllables if possible.
Please dont forget to play. Can you remember
the last time you danced?
After three flights, two chicken buses, and a strange bout of illness, I arrived in El Nido, a small backpacker nest at the far edge of the Philippines.
Wind in the ears like / Water ungathering / In and out of baskets.
When his heart is an ashtray—cigarette butts put out on a surface that will not flinch
why does it feel so much harder to see something happen to someone else than have it happen to you?
When I finally swallow, it feels like an admission of failure.
The door is broken, the home is not
as we begin to compare our splinters
before our squinting eyes.
In Crow’s version, Proverbs become advice on how to tell if someone gives good head.
What author’s (dead or alive) persona is aspirational?
Maybe Joan Didion, the super thin wrists, the iconic image on a tote bag. I just want to keep on writing books.
