When I arrived, I saw my pen pal’s room had a white board propped against the wall—a list of all the debts he owed. He played me a song by a band I’d never heard & stared at the speakers, asked Doesn’t this want to make you live a hundred more years? as if we’d lived a hundred already.
—From my essay, “Floor Plans,” published in the newest issue of Illuminati Girl Gang, sold here.
Sierra as a broken tooth in the bathroom, peeling off tangerine rinds from her thighs, waiting for something to bloom. Sierra, as salt down my back in glimmering light, as a dream I once had, as the dream I never had. Sierra as bloody diamonds, bloody gold, as her mouth pockmarked and full, waiting, easy, slowly, kiss me, fuck. Sierra as the person I didn’t let exist inside me, as the broken horse, the watery eyes, the twisted leg, and I didn’t want to shoot her. In the backyard, no barn, no Midwest, no dreary Ohio dreams, me and you, Sierra, letting the mosquitoes ricochet across our palms, and I had a gun in my hands and you’re going to let me shoot you, you’re not going to cry. Belly kisses and you broke the windows with your bare hands. Belly kisses and sometimes, I blink and you’re shimmering, sometimes I blink and the light devours you. Sometimes it’s hard to pretend that you didn’t bleed, Sierra.