Across the room, the most gorgeous and popular boy in school — tall, blonde, athletic and artsy. A damn Norse god come to life.
Across the room, the most gorgeous and popular boy in school — tall, blonde, athletic and artsy. A damn Norse god come to life.
I always had to try something once. Just to see.
When I pick up the phone, she’s sobbing. CW // suicidal ideation
We huddled together, silent, as we tiptoed past tombstones and stumbled over crumbling stone walls, the moon our lone guiding light.
I saw him sitting in the front pew of All Saints Church. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Burlap-like irregularities are scattered across my face, foreign invaders in a war they are destined to win, for time is their leader.
I tell him to chase me and ask for a ten-second running start, a real one with “hippopotamus” between the numbers.
“Jill! Come over here!” My heart went dizzy, for I was never invited by my sister to come over here, or anywhere.
It’s a quarter to midnight. I’m going to change my pronouns on Instagram.
The lilacs on the best corner of the block touched us as we took our walks, their blooms too plump, persuasive.
the opening note, a crisp major chord before the black and white keys give away beneath the flurry of my fingertips.
“Sheila,” she said, looking worried. “Are you feeling ok?”
While walking along the beachfront in Swampscott, Massachusetts, I spotted a guy coming toward me. He was singing “Under the Boardwalk” by the Drifters, half in Spanish, half in English.
The first bite I inhale, the second I gobble, the third I gulp past a hiccup. She frowns, but she's holding her breath too, swallowing the morsel stuck in her own throat.
The smoke grew like a tree, unfurling its thin curls in the unquiet night. It smelled like blueberry syrup, thick and cloying.
Charcoal sticks scuffed as he ambled, then stopped near my elbow. “You have lovely lips.” The scuffing slowed.
A total of seventeen hours of flight over three days found us half broken and drained at our doorstep. Our house looked strange.
I haven’t written a single poem in months.
Britney Spears almost killed me.
“I had a dream about you,” he said. How should I reply to that?