At Bryn Mawr I was taught never to use CAPS / I dawn my lips / and paint my toes / red as a manifestos
behold a God's eye in storm where tapping rings / finish me.
Michelle understood my frustration. She diagnosed Peter with “terminal vagueness” and agreed it wasn’t my job to financially support him.
Hoarding is bad and it’s equally bad when all that indie music doesn’t hit the spot anymore
I like crazy. I like the monomaniacal Captain Ahab, the deranged Humbert Humbert, the murderous Raskolnikov, the obsessed Heathcliff, the serial killers Patrick Bateman and Tom Ripley, the psychopath
Lies are told beneath silvery moons
And far beyond sad boys and girls falling in love.
I wake up the next morning with the sensation that my lips weigh ten pounds and are about to drop off my face. I’m too scared to look in the mirror,
Did I want to fuck her? Or did I want to be her?
It’s the question everyone asks but I’ve never felt it until now.
Before the internet had all the answers,
before Siri, before Alexa,
before TikTok teens with ring lights
explained the universe in under thirty seconds—
I had my dad.
Dad was my Wikipedia.
Dad
In those days, it was popular to ask, What would Jesus do? I crucified myself for days.
They said it was a record-breaking storm. I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to find a clean bowl and wondering if the radiator was supposed to make that noise. I didn’t think anyone would be out
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.
Please dont forget to play. Can you remember
the last time you danced?
