On lazy hazy crazy summers.

Gramma said, I’m going on a long trip.

I may be twelve, but I’m becoming more.

Imagine you’ve stumbled upon a playful or stupid or merciless genie.

When I was seventeen, I found the seam around my neck and unzipped it.

Despite being in a dark room with a stranger, I am reassured.

I didn’t know why I wanted to do this. It was a compulsion, a twist in character brought about by a hand holding a stopwatch.

On the underrated art form.

Every Wednesday, shed their business suits and don purple polyester tracksuits that crackle when they move.

The dads will sing along to Ashanti too, in a high, thin countertenor, near enough to the notes to feel their resonance across time.

His laugh was the loudest, the hardest sound coming out as a wheeze at the end.

We toppled out the door, catching ourselves as we spilled into a buzz of neon and tires spitting rain.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO STOP HAUNTING MY BODY.

On shifting frequencies.

There teeth are coins for passage and your tongue is taken as a savoury.

You’re both silent until he says, I feel stupid and contagious.

A few more plays and I’m pretty sure we accomplish a mind transferral, or a body swap.

Even the most delicate goats gnaw metal with bright eyes.

It was shaping up to be a Paul spring—quixotically homicidal; cottagecore insanity.

He’s dreaming of beating his manager up and walking out with cash in his hands. A spaceship has to be bought, after all.