In response to your suicide letter, I write that I now order a bowl of vegetable ramen from the local Izakaya whose waitlist fills up twenty minutes before its five pm opening.
I look at my bright and blotchy cheeks in the mirror with blurry-eyed fascination, but not for too long because I have crying to do.
one chance out of zero,
but spent a youth chasing
what I am still not.
Appel turns his professional interest in the workings of the human mind to a narrative exploration of the reasons we tell lies.
I want to feel
the warm milk of your smile.
I want to see your reflection
in the moon’s mirror, polished like spring bones.
She was not like unwitting prey,
That had never sighted the lion;
She fled from him, knowing
As she did what it meant…
i’d put stickers all over the moon
and hang it from the ceiling
in the living room
sunshine snacked on
Brown girl: you don’t get a plot twist. Your story’s been penned
with strokes as hollow as they are spiteful
I originally wanted to write an article about how different diets suit different people, and how breaking away from my father’s belief in the Atkins diet and doing my own research was liberating for me. I had hoped that those reading this article would find a similarly freeing effect, and it would give them hope…
For those who forego the languor of home ground, that lethal rapine of routine, the most compelling sound of the travelling life might be a ferry’s foghorn throughout the night
I receive a call from my mother. It is to tell me a recipe for tortang talong, which she learnt last night in a dream.