my head’s not in the clouds it’s in second hand smoke rumbling the remains of a mute blast of a bomb i do not recall
A gash in the ground. Ladder encased in litter, time, tendrils of DNA superimposed upon DNA, loose hair, change, chapstick, tickets…
Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the end of man’s dignity. It was something very simple: a deft rejection; a missed telephone call; a piece of shrapnel lodged in the soul of man; a waiter who slips and falls in lobster juice spilled from the plate he was carrying; an otherwise beautiful […]
/My mother told me I could never let go of a baby pink comb. /An aeroplane skimming over a cloud, soft as the foam of milk…
The vague, open broadness of abstract emotions — love, envy, loneliness — makes them slippery subjects to encapsulate in writing. How can one distil or display, accurately, the complexity of something like love in a single text?
Too young to be a Mother. Too young. Unmarried. Shame to raise another. With Daddy issues. Daughter. Girl Needs.
It isn’t always fists pounding and bruises blossoming along the delicate cheekbones that caught you such a man.
Of course, she’d wanted it awake too. He just had to make sure she didn’t change her mind halfway through. So many bitches. BITCHES. Did that.