Anonymous asked: Hey, incoming Queen's frosh here. At risk of sounding stalkerish, I really adore your writing-- I'm trying to compile a bucket list of books this summer, so I was wondering if you had any recommended reads? Thanks!
I am a gaping hole. The kind that stares back at you like the narrow slits of cats’ eyes. I am the tear in a brand new white shirt, the vacancy on the bookshelf. I am an absent opening unlike the presence of pores on skin or perforations in a strainer to make them what they are. Nothing comes through me, so I am waiting only to be filled. Make use of me, Jack, and turn me into the tar pit...
I have not been able to tell anyone anything, Jack. Good news and bad news all ram up against the back of my teeth in my mouth. It has become a daily collision, and my throat is sore from swallowing it. I am a bobble-head figurine on someone’s windowsill: nodding my agreement all the way into his chest only to knock up against his heart, the way my words do along my gums. I am a...
I did not hope for anything.
It hurt. It hurt worse than anything I had ever felt. I looked over the letter the second time seeing only the commas, the periods — the pauses. I wondered if she had paused after printing them. My heart hoped she had. My heart hoped that she was paused somewhere in the middle of a commonplace action. Perhaps she had been stirring her coffee with a teaspoon (counter clockwise because that is...
magnet (or the opposite of)
She was skinny as a wisp of smoke and wearing more rings than fabric — slouching almost entirely over the expanse of skin between her black bandeau and denim cut-offs when I first saw her. Her nail polish was chipped and there was a scar over her right eyebrow, and suddenly she was the most beautiful girl in the whole room. It seemed like she didn’t get along with others by the way...
“The chlorine is bad for your hair,” he says. I’ve been lying by the pool fully clothed all day with only my hair dipped into the water. I enjoy the way that it must appear like some bizarre protest or a scene from an independent film that was screened only twice. But it is neither of these things and hadn’t even begun as an accident. It was a stubborn thought forced into...
A lie is easy to slip into.
What’s the point of honesty if it goes on like a lip ring? I’d like it to do itself a shade more permanent. The grooves and hills along the roof of your moth would be a good example. And if that’s a little too much to ask, wear the truth at least like your favourite dress on an evening out — letting it cling to you, letting it console you, taking it off with a hint of...