A tattered copy of ‘Salem’s Lot to ward off boredom on dreary car rides that stretch from city to sea. A collection of Polaroids detailing my state of mental decline between relationship B and relationship D. Those bus journeys that wormed their way through the local towns and villages, and those women who pulled… Read more

  Tampa Bay. Clogged veins and ovarian cysts. Your memories, your precious heart that won’t let go. You’re a good luck charm, and no matter where you are, I can feel you calling. The more I write and embrace what it is to be alive- the less need I have for others. Dreams of unicorns.… Read more

  We walk on shattered glass and breathe in the stench of stale beer. There are no lights, and nor are there sounds, just our sweaty palms in knowing what comes next. Nudity. Oneness. All kinds of blemishes and shame in revealing what we are. You and your stretch marks, me and my belly. You and… Read more

  Smeared ink on her belly. Lyrics. Poetry. Prose. I dip my fingers in the pot and scrawl whatever I please from her belly to her breasts. Alienation. Cancer. Secrets concerning the loss of virginity and the first time I touched a vagina. Squeezing tight, sunlight illuminates the flesh of my eyelids and the whole… Read more

  The arms of the clock were pulled off while she was taking a shower. I was bored and suffering from stomach cramps and when I feel like a cornered animal stuff ends up breaking. Drying herself before the vanity mirror, she checks for lumps then plucks her eyebrows making sure to place each one… Read more

  The hour is built around a photographic memory and a thirst for midget pornography. As a result, there are wet patches on her shirt where I keep sucking at her breasts along with the vague sensation of being in two places at the same time. She pushes me away while trying to read her… Read more

  The supermarket near where we live is flooded but we make the trip anyway. The aisles are full of driftwood and our clothes soaked but it’s no big deal because we have pizza and beer and we are young and free. I’m smoking, and although it’s just a few, you don’t like it and… Read more

  At the bus stop I pick leaves from a tree. In my hands they crumble before falling to the ground in pieces. It’s summer. You can taste it in the air, just the same as you can taste the honey from the bees that form a halo around our freckled heads. After tea and… Read more

The time is whatever. Other people are whatever. Love is a screwdriver thrust into a tender belly, or perhaps a razor blade slashing a slender neck leaning out to be kissed- whatever hurts most. But the pain shouldn’t be avoided, nor should it be worn with shame, because to hurt is to feel, and feeling… Read more

  The mountains are alcoholic. The clouds above them, they too are alcoholic. The rivers of thawed out ice that flow from their summit, they taste like a billion shots of chilled Sambuca ready to take us far away from the piss-stained streets that offer nothing but the same old faces and same reasons to… Read more