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don’t think I can make it that long.” The rain fractures the headlights of yellow cabs that speed by, splashing water onto the sidewalk.
don’t think I can make it that long.” The rain fractures the headlights of yellow cabs that speed by, splashing water onto the sidewalk.
It’s like life is this powerful river, of doing laundry and buying groceries and driving to work and scrolling on my phone, and the weekends are so short.
infinite amount of time spent unloading the dishwasher and waiting in line at the grocery store.
You will not be like me, little kidney Bean. You will not chain yourself to a dream so big, so heavy, that you will spend years hauling it behind you, falling further and further behind until you turn to try to let it go and realize you can’t. The chains are gone; they’ve been gone for years. You are the chain.
beautiful sound, a shush, the way it feels when somebody makes a bed on top of you, that cotton sheet billowing up and then coming down around you.
The plastic stick lands in the sink, and I peer at it, checking and checking again.
It would be pretty damn convenient to believe in god right about now. To know there is a plan, a plan for me (phone out, mighty god finger on the screen tracing the blue dots, god knows my ETA).
She and I are both passengers, trapped on a train that is about to launch itself off a cliff into the great ether.
Into the darkness and stars and schmear of galaxy. Nothing we can do about it now. Nothing to do except stare out the window and wait.
The ocean is a hoarder, you know. Keeping a collection of tchotchkes down there and then spitting them out, one by one, to remind us that it owns all of us.
We fall back into silence. Something like adrenaline starts beating its slow drum inside me. Maybe you’ll know this feeling one day—there’s nothing a woman hates more than walking by herself, and hearing a strange noise, or feeling the presence of an “other,” that horrible sickness all over my body, ground shifting, women are so unsafe, all of us always pretending to be safe, always avoiding any reminder that our safety is upheld only as long as the person closest to us keeps deciding not to kill us.
the end of the world, the men with the guns make the rules. We’ve known this forever.
couch is like a mother, takes all your weight, asks nothing in return.
A minute brushes
against my face. An hour settles atop my body.
But then you realize how heavy it is to lift someone up day after day. How much your arms burn and how much easier it would be to just rest for a while.
am a soda can about to explode.
He holds his hands out. This is a thing people do to show they’re not holding weapons, Bean. But this doesn’t mean they’re unarmed. The weapons are just hidden.
Every sound is a serial killer.
The trees shake out their branches at me, whisper warnings in the dark.
