Personal blog + stories
Compromise is a good word, but compromised isn t? Stripping the sheets off the bed. The bowl has to be washed first, but it s too big on the rack. Shadows in my brain like shrapnel. They didn t do anything wrong, except for everything. Why do I always have to be right? Can I talk clinically about [ ]
A fair fight, a sentence to death. In the center of a sniper s sight, I miss you already. An apparently humorless man, but still I saw you, when you turned away, smiling at the way I stood there with the wet on my hands. Later, in bed, I wonder if I make you proud. Shocked, [ ]
Give me a little more credit. Big clouds, wave skimming with easy light. You don t let me finish my thought. You don t let me process the feeling. Telling Alvin I m trying. Feeling lost. Streaks on my calves from the knee-high grass, pebbles under my nails from the charcoal in the sand. Flashlights, dark sides, crossing [ ]
He starts talking, agape and eros and I think, oh no, he knows. Nacre heart on my neck. Never were, never weren t. The issue is, activism is embarrassing. The issue is, you save lives by inventing fertilizer. With your yellow-tinged and square-shaped glasses, your physical abuse of your wife. I can t watch this happen, but [ ]
AI-generated poetry is preferable to human-written poetry? Oh, we are actually done for. The authors describe the reason in the results: The AI poems are more accessible. My house is full of cowards and I can t stand it. Your only crime is working hard for your family and I hate you. You are boring and [ ]
Pylon, python. Ready with a wet rag. An impression of me, between sheets, humidly, on glass. My desire is to write the book on you—poised, perfect, candlelit—while you struggle, at my feet, to scratch the surface of my smile. My desire is to be cool, inaccessible, while you flounder, vulnerable, plundered. Imagine my shock when [ ]
False, that I walk through a gray Tokyo evening, arms out like a windswept umbrella, crying to Jeff Buckley. False, that I have fallen in love. False, that my abs won t show, no matter how long I plank on the ribbed mat. False, that I choked on a mackerel bone. Fickleness that knows few bounds. [ ]
Awkward, to be developing an affection for Alvin that is not romantic nor absolutely platonic, and as a result feels abjectly transgressive. But, by God, defer your judgment of me for just one moment. Let me plead my case. Remove the cuffs from my wrists and drag me, on bloodied and knobby knees, in front [ ]
I spend two weeks at the beach and in that time my lifelong suspicion towards the water tightens into a ball of wiry dislike. Gummy in my mouth, spat onto the cement. Yes, the ocean is like a metal plate, like my grandmother s left eye, like a bubble bath. Yes, the ocean is like a [ ]
You don t know what to say to me. You don t know what I ll understand. And if you do say something, you don t know how I ll take it. So you say nothing. You decide it s not worth the risk. Your mood changes like moonrise over dirty latitude. You raise a blade. You tighten your grip on [ ]