A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

From my mother, I learned that beauty was armor. From my teenage friends, I learned that femininity was junk. They were both right.

Joyce makes something of a fetish of forgiveness.

Luciana ended her story, her laughter ringing hollow. She rocked back and forth in her plastic chair, wound up by the catharsis of confession. The room was silent, clasped in the chest-clenching grip of awkwardness and horror.

It doesn’t mean that I’m unaware. It doesn’t mean I’m going full Michael Pollan, apologizing for my desires, and sequestering my flesh-eating to certain days or times like a hapless, half-assed, rehabilitating alcoholic. It does mean, however, that I’m aware of the choices I’m making. I

You can’t have erotic love without the rank grittiness of dirty bodies, and bodies, like desires, are disgusting. Such was my love for Alex that I liked his morning breath.