[Trigger Warning: Depictions of abuse, substance use, and suicide] She doesn’t take sugar or cream. The spoon is wholly ritual. Languid lulling of percolated pitch. She’s angry.
So, bad news first: my existential expose of an expedition to the cooing Canadian winter to find myself through threesomes that thrill and the tender, forgiving touch of a woman’s love has been delayed because I am not well, at all, and I’d feel disingenuous talking about how I “found myself abroad” while I’m shopping […]
It is 1997. My mother is unhappy. She’s quietly contorting her face, pursing her lips and focusing her gaze on some inanimate object. I used to think this was meant to dismiss me, to erase me from the room, but I learned, after bringing home a report card of mostly Cs that this was actually […]