Every night she does two things: ice cream at the place down the block, and a cigarette outside of the place down the block. She doesn’t really enjoy either one, but she practices the ritual religiously. A type of religion that keeps her wanting more. That, at least, is good for her. She and I are the same, stuck inside each other. I swear I haven’t changed in 15 years. I still cry about my life from 15 years ago, I still don’t want to make any friends. I was 15, now I am

I’m constantly on the edge, between shoes off and shoes on. I’m always barefoot when I walk outside to take out the trash. My feet track muddy footprints through freshly mopped homes that are not my own. I ask to use the bathroom, and then go into their closets instead, tracing a finger around the lining of my friend’s underwear drawer. “Why are you stressed?”- my friends ask as if all my paychecks checks aren't bouncing. As if my next rent payment won’t max out my credit c

“Help” is out of the question. It is not a doodle! Not like that! Not that many times! She was mad, *I could tell, but I couldn’t care. My response comes out with my sigh, “You’re right, I’m sorry.” Sorry can be said. It doesn’t have to be meant. That lesson is hard to learn; it’s always the others who don’t mean their sorries, and you who get all the blame. The nagging woman leaves the same way she came, back through the dark hall, and through the door on the other side. I’m

“I think this all just loops back to your father, Cherish.” Jon was looking at me deeply, with concern and a mix of something else, impossible to place. I named it love. In the early years Cherish would respond flirtatiously, good naturedly, maybe a bit greedily. In the early years, Cherish though that a text from Jon meant she was allowed to exist, or that she mattered enough to. That was then; now, Cherish pushed back. “I don’t think one man could commit all this destruct

The days have grown dark, and the woman looking back at me from the mirror no longer reminds me of myself. Instead, she reminds me of my mother mixed in with all the worst parts of my father. After I’ve taken a shower, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. After the lights have gone out in the bathroom. I will enter my kitchen to find a single candle flickering on the table. My old water glass sits beside it, but it doesn’t look like my water glass anymore, it looks like my g

“I cannot do yoga anymore.” The girl in front of me is sobbing. Tears, snot, face contorted in a pained expression. The whole thing. “Why are you acting like this?” I chuckle, embarrassed for the girl. Even though I’m trying to help her, to alert her to her behavior, she does nothing but repeat what I said, at the time, in the same tone, so that I can barely talk. “Stop.” I say, but so does she. I shake my head, trying to focus, but out of the corner of my eye I see her shake

I laid in that bed for years. Longer. The length alludes time. In that bed, the years sped up. I died in that bed. I loved and wed in that bed. I birthed in that bed, I worked in that bed. The bed lived in my apartment, in the storage room where it was dark, and safe, and cozy. Nothing could hurt me in that room, and nothing ever tried. It was haunted, like it had a ghost. Not me, a real one. One that would sit on the edge of my bed while I lay there for days. I ignored my bo

A channel is basic, everyday. Just a. You know what it looks like? Anything? Or all gone? The class nods in understanding, agreement, except for 1, who feels contempt. Dixie is last to understand. The class is organized by color; special edition crayola colors. Understanding appears as a sort of pinkish white, while agreement and contempt are both earth tones. Pain is not mentioned, at least not in the way contempt is. It is not understood. Pain sits in the corner, a desk set

I smoked cigarettes that night. Lots of them, sitting on the couch. His couch, our couch. He wasn’t there. Had to finish stuff up at the apartment -- probably was doing lots of coke up at the apartment. I missed him like crazy. The new apartment was big, but weird. It was bigger than I should’ve been able to afford, and even though my mom helped me get the place, I felt like I’d made it. There was a TV too -- the couch was a pullout, or maybe the bed was available too, but

—— I don’t think you understand how hard I sobbed on plane the that night. Screeching, screaming sobs that shook me. No one heard except for me. I had ordered 4 cups of wine, and the altitude made me fucking drunk. There were too many shows on the tv to choose from, but I chose the right one. Or the wrong one, because now I’m sobbing. Tears are falling fast, and I keep wiping them but it’s not fast enough. My chin is trembling, but my mouth is thankfully locked shut. A death

She loved her lips, the soft curve up and sharp curve down, coming together to form a cupid’s bow. Her lips were a good thing, and she was grateful. Her eyes were a good thing too. She had loved her eyes since the first time she was loved because of them. “Your eyes,” a lover had said. “They shine like Gold!” The girl had blinked, confused, but her lover interpreted it as flirtation and had leaned in for a kiss. “They are?” she’d asked, breaking away from his lips “They are,”

No I cannot be your idol. Stop living so slow. The thing you call living is drowning in media overflow. We call you complacent. We share the same name. Brothers by nature, by mother, by pain. Separate approaches lead to different paths. Everyone is trying not to crack. I’ve been thinking about getting hooked on crack. And I'm trying, I'm trying, but there's no one to tell. So, I know that, no matter what, I will end up in hell. No matter, no matter, no matter what you say to

And reviewed by cunty 'ol me Do not read this book if you don't like metaphysical fun or gore. If you don't like gore, you will just need to skip about five pages total, not a deal breaker. The book tells the story of an abusive relationship. One of those where people say that someone is bound to kill the other one before long. The reader is yanked around a lot, and you won't really get the full picture until the very end, where you may realize, like I did that this whole boo

And all of life is the same now. Cool, blue, wet water. Children laughing. And I know that I'm safe. And I know that I'm safe. And I know that I'm safe. There's a monotony in madness, and I don't know if that's why I'm glued to the couch, but I'm glued to the couch. These days, when I'm not teaching lessons, I'm glued to the couch. And I cannot move, I really can't. I've tried. I've taken more Adderall - I've taken anti-anxiety - I've had coffee, but I'm stuck. I'm stuck, and

When I cut my hair off, I thought I looked sick. Under all the sticky-up blonde was just sickness, and death. I thought about returning to the places I’d left but realized I couldn’t or I’d encounter sickness and death. Community is impossible to create in a place that can’t retain it. Where people stay and always go. Life is nestled in between two families -- life locked. Hair falls out when your adrenals start to drain it. Follicles nestled into rot. No one can stay,

I don’t want to be a mess anymore, I really don’t Drunk on rage, spilling ashes onto my sheets and on the floor. If I had died today, I think I would have found my life a bore. So I keep on living the same day over and over. Pretending I am eager to see what else life has in store. But that isn’t true, or everyday wouldn’t be the same. Endlessly drowning in complacency until it turns into rage. Stop drowning woman! Get up. You have eggs in your uterus, you have a reason to ke

A book written by Thomas Grattan and picked apart by cunty ol' me. Introduction I had to take a break because I finished the book, Gordon was being a lot, I had to re-read a few parts, and I realized through the whole thing that (although I claimed to have hated the book) I think I actually really did like it. In this review you will definitely find small timeline errors and be inundated with spoilers. If either of those are a deal breaker for you, don’t read this. You will n

Women look in the mirror, women do their hair, women go to work, and women have careers. I was one of those women, raised up by a mom who was not a lesbian but has never been in love, or even looked at a man, since my father left her ass for God. I went to a high school that produced, Jackie O. A woman whose face I first saw in history, her hair flying when she reached back to grab a chunk of skin and blood. I got a job in tech, as many of us do, and I did a good job, as many

>> Note: this piece, like all of my pieces, is a work of fiction. I have scoliosis because I get horny when I sit upright. Luckily I’m hyper mobile and my spine bends to every male delight. Humans are animals,and we can smell someone in heat. We don’t talk about it, it’s not what we do. It’s not proper, it’s not natural, it’s not a very neat. The taste of sex is tangy, metallic, next to blood. It’s nice though, a nod to that one Jew. Who was he again, and why do we drink his

6 people. 2 women, 4 men. 1 rambler, 1 asleep, 2 awfully silent, 2 hard to see. I realized I was dying when I was three. Time is a concept, and not a very good one. This meeting was supposed to be anonymous, but everyone’s just autistic like me. The men are talking about God, but really it’s just womb envy. How do I tell them I am here because my womb feels too heavy. What can I do as an addicted astronaut? As an ambedextrous aficionado. An asshole with some extra dots. Ever