“She wore her sexuality with an older woman’s ease, and not like an awkward purse, never knowing how to hold it, where to hang it, or when to just put it down.”
― Zadie Smith
three little black boys
lying in a grave yard
i couldn’t tell
if they were playing
― Baba Lukata
“There’s blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.”
― Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye
He said to her, “You are large and must be broken apart.”
The ghosts in her home were not translucent bodies that floating to the ceilings before descending to gently strangled her as she slept curled in a ball. The ghosts in her home were the orphaned objects. The many undisturbed objects collecting dust as they sat like excerpts of 16th century still life paintings in her home. The coffee maker she refused to use because the last man to touch it touched her with soiled hands. The vase that skid across the floor the night she found out. The sandwich he was eating the evening before a gust of courage ushered him out the front door. The dress she wore the first time he told her that he loved her. The objects sat there haunting her, maybe even mocking her. She could move them. She could throw them out. She could drape a dark cloak over them. She could do all these things, but she likes to be haunted. The haunting was it’s own form of companionship.
Only was born with a full mouth of teeth and gnawed at her mother’s nipples until they bled. Only’s father left somewhere between the bloody nipples and her first period. Too much blood one would imagine.
Dropped off work to @brooklynmuseum for staff exhibition which opens on Dec 5!
How to be a lady: Apply baby powder and count your wounds privately.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.(via audrotas)
She read the letter six times. Each time she unfolded the stapled sheets of paper with a different sequence of hand motions and in a different part of the house and in a different pair of socks, hoping, somehow that the text would read differently.
Editor’s Note: On Running a “No-Bullshit” Literary Magazine
The hardest part about running a literary magazine has been, thus far, pulling my hands away—that is, to not be so forceful in molding the publication that I accidentally strangle it, robbing it of its potential. When I started Specter back in 2011, I had high hopes, big dreams, and even bigger ideas for what it should be, and what it should look like. This caused the magazine to swell in scope and size—the damn thing became too unwieldy.
Almost three years later, everything about Specter encompasses a minimalist approach to publishing literature, interviews, and art.