writing: hunger and boys and poetry

There was a storm coming and she had run six miles and she was not hungry. She sprawled on the couch and ached pleasurably, but her stomach was ringing hollow. I am going to vomit, most likely. Why the fuck am I not hungry? Why the fuck? It was six miles. The last time her…

writing: the cousin

The lights dimmed in the room and she left quickly. She did not want to see his face when he came in. It had been six months and she did not want to look at him. The picture was in her head, aggressive in clarity. She did not have to look. She left and stood…

writing: the holiday girl

not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know…

writing: the things that happened today

I stood in the shower a long time and imagined getting out, taking my towel from the hook and wrapping it around my body, and then unclipping my hair and shaking it loose and bunching the curls between my fingers, and walking back to my dorm room. My room is clean. Nothing else, lately, has…

poem: maniac pixie dream girl

when I was younger I wanted to be the personification of some artist's inner life— i would be the girl with the mask tacked on backwards, the girl over-thinking her image— i would be youth, hope, the red blushes in forests, the red blushes when boys lean in close and say things from books—like this…