See, I’m too stupid to write a poem.
Remember when I said this, that afternoon by the lake
in our purple & yellow short shorts,
His breath smells like spliff and orange juice and peanut butter. It’s delicious.
Levi’s High
My moods as blue
as these lake hues
Ass still looks hot in this
double denim though,
so fuck yous
Swatting flies
On my thighs
in the desert
Amor
Bouchon
Steak
At last, I texted him the truth: I have bipolar disorder. I’m in a hypomanic episode. I’m really not feeling well, I can’t stop crying. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry...
Revelers in various stages of undress, semi-dress, drag and fetishistic extravagance frolicked, tripping out on the music and their collective naughtiness.
That’s when she asked me if you were still part of our family.
"[Her Lesser Work] is a collection of mordant and formally inventive stories circling themes of, let’s say, desire and escape within repressive structures."
-Walker Caplan, Literary Hub
