Explore

I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.

She takes her hand to my scalp: eyes close as if tasting lemon cake.

Tanya jokes that she comes to the East Coast now only for funerals.

Some types of pain are just too deep to touch, are better left alone.

You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.

The future was spread out for us to go in any direction we wanted.

You live in this country, you put up bars, you train your dogs to snarl.

I miss sex. I really liked it, and I was good at it, if I do say so myself.

I am part dumb, and blind, and deaf, and untasting and unfeeling.

We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.

I never actually existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as day.

Because I can love every small thing.

No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.

I was lying with electricity. I was already a story being told.

won’t you celebrate with me that every day has tried to kill me

Not the Olympics, the guard said. Just chuck yourself down the tube.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

“O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it!”