In Paris, a man raises his fingers and sweeps them between my thighs. We are on the Metro. I am wearing a skirt. I am I am I am, softened by this rare day of sunlight, a warm spot pulsing between stretches of rain, violet nights, coat-weather. In Paris I…

*I originally published this on Entropy. We are eating apricot scones. We are watching the crumbs gather around each other’s lips, spill over, pepper pink skin with white. We are engaging in Eros. We are downing splinter-hot tea with our throats ready to sting hard. We are violating every easy…

Heartmouth is: A project in radical intimacy, in disrupting and remaking the confines and expanses of literature in the style of Shelley Jackson’s Patchwork Girl or Chris Kraus’ I Love Dick. A work of ongoingness, a work that doesn’t prioritize or even believe in endings. A heartwork, engaging with the…

1. The bottled-up pleasures, the ones we associate with shame. The enjoyments that don’t make sense. How we indulge, collectively, in terror as entertainment. The unpalatable, what we seem entranced by like pigeons swarming a piece of moldy toast, what we cannot quite admit to liking. Mine: an obsession with…

What we want to know about our plants is what we want to know about our lives — Questions from The American Orchid Society’s FAQ page: Where do I cut the spike? Begin at the neck of the thing. Thick and green like a decomposing thumb; feel out the skin. Let yourself touch, gently, make a slow gesture back and forth. This limb under your fingertips may feel unnecessary. But the body is the…

i miss the way i used to write. i miss the flustered, unpolished unconcerned flutter of it, heart-burping, heart-vomiting, the vile wet unglued matter all pouring out without agonizing, without the cutting board, the post-production stage. i miss the teenage bedroom writing with my cadence, my sentences, so imperfect, so…

The red. Of the cotton we wear, of the blood smudging our thighs. Scarlet and stark and demanding. Caustic, even, because we have every right to be caustic. Red like the word autonomy; the red of the words my synesthesia imbues and blotches like bloodstains. Red of the robes…

Originally published on Lithium Magazine You will need about four trashbags. The biggest you can find. The most durable. You will need to lug those bags into your room. One by one, splay them out on the floor. This will take about an hour, maybe more, so play some music…

Northwood — Maryse Meijer A book can read like a wound, can be a wound, blood-sticky and trembling and a dark lush red, something you can’t get out of or heal by wishing alone, only through climbing inside can you see anything clearly at all. Maryse Meijer’s novella Northwood is…