Things Up To Now

I have an inkling that sometimes the big, black, seemingly-indifferent cosmos aligns stars and constellations to fuck you. And when it does, it usually plunges for your weakest organ: your heart. 

The Butcher

"Like a ghost of bitches past, I've jumped up menacingly from the bottom of your bed demanding margaritas and orgasms."

The Alchemist

His pain is immortal: it survived generations, bred in quiet rooms filled with hushed tones, sweaty women pinned on beds fucked to conception, mouths stuffed with secrets.

Roxanne

I've written some long and drunken thank you notes to men I knew for fifteen minutes: thanks for the dinner, the sex, and the punch in the heart. But now never call again — never think of me again.