From The Black Naught

I wasn’t ready to start my day. I wanted to stay in bed, wrapped up in Peter, and watch the rise and fall of white cotton sheets for a little while longer. Or close my eyes and go back to dreaming. In my sweet sleep, you were sat on the beach, building sandcastles and exhaling

Dreadful

I can’t drive past a dead animal splayed and stinking on the side of the road in the summer heat without thinking of you. The tang you’d left behind inside your apartment is no different than a fucking stupid deer, rotting; we’re all animals, after all. The similarity is incredibly depressing. Makes my mind wander

My Husband, the Persian Gulf Veteran

My husband is older than me by nine years and five months. When I was in sixth grade, he was a specialist driving a HEMTT for the United States Army during the Persian Gulf War. In 1990, Saddam Hussein ordered the invasion and occupation of Kuwait. Hussein refused to withdraw in defiance of the United

The June Bugs are smacking against the window screen, and Melvin doesn’t mind. Cats of a certain age aren’t bothered; Melvin just keeps on sleeping with his nose pressed against the screen, happy for the warm spring air. He’s an indoor kitty—because I love him too much. Growing up, we had cats that were allowed

Quotes by Magpie Carey

Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting, but falling slowly, spiraling uncontrolled into the black; the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space, unsympathetic.   So Dad opened the door to the dark January night. The sky was black as pitch and cloudless, the stars brilliant, perfect white dots. He picked up his suitcase, and

Tome

My face is lined with volumes you’ve never read; and yet my eyes speak to you? Trust me, they belie what lies beneath my wine cellar. Just ask him, the one who has actually pored over this flesh, and subsequently survived the fire expelled from these lungs. I was not fashioned for the pleasure of

A Real Writer Bleeds

I’m no good a lot of times, because I’m human, cutting my own path. I often wonder how I can make my words more visible; how I can do better to widely inspire. I’m assaulted by generics daily, and I feel sorry for those who follow easy lines built upon clichés—I’m offended for every writer

Dead Mothers Don’t Dine

I dreamt I was miniature, traveling through a labyrinthine trailer park diseased with taupe colored muck, and flip-flopping mudskippers; pectoral fins glimmered in waves, despite the sunless, flat grey ceiling of a sky. My skin screamed at the loathsome goby touch, and my mouse heart beat savagely against its cage. Panic drove my legs, and

The Taste of My Grief

Today my tongue tastes yellow, not like lemons, but like nicotine stained fingertips, or young pus on the cusp of turning pea green. That’s what it is—my tongue tastes like infection. Tastes like your moldering death and sticky linoleum. Tastes like November 7th, the day I learned you’d died in that goddamned apartment with no

Versatile Blog Award

Congratulations to Henna at Murder Tramp Birthday for receiving the Versatile Blogger Award! Henna’s writing is fucking bananas, and I greatly admire her. Thank you, dear heart, for nominating me.  ❤ So, the rules this time around are to write seven interesting things about yourself, then choose fifteen of your favorite bloggers to nominate. 7