A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

One learns so much about a person when one merely wants to fuck him.

I watched as his eyes grew blank with ethereal suddenness. It’s such an intimate thing, to witness another’s death. Orgasms are a dime a dozen. Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die;

There’s a lot to be said for intimidating intelligence and a dearth of conscience, and I possess both.

Female psychopaths, researchers eventually realized, don’t present like the males. To which I respond: No shit.

Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest.

we fucked so much, so long, and so often, we passed a yeast infection back and forth like a joint.

What is importance, anyway, but the weight of experience.

I knew from a young age that motherhood was a cage I never wanted to inhabit.

Emma and I loved each other with the ferocity borne of a twisted shared history. I have no other explanation for our relationship.

Mercy is a wriggling thing. I rarely trust it.