Prose
Gimme Back My Wig
Sometimes I catch myself wishing I were popular; then I remember how much work it is, being likable for others’ sakes, and I say, nah—fuck that, I’ve done my time as a people pleaser. I don’t have time to waste constructing saccharine façades for carb-counting contemporaries who can’t kick the fake sweets. And here’s a secret: I’m not nice, and I don’t wake up in the morning with a song in my heart. If I did, it would be a blues number. As Hound Dog Taylor would say, “Gimme back my wig, honey let your head go bald.”
By Harper Lewis 15 days ago in Poets
Rooms of October
The October Hotel stands at the end of a narrow street, four stories of windows and faded red carpet, with a vacancy sign glowing above the entrance. I check in after midnight, when the lobby has emptied and the elevator waits with its doors open.
By Tim Carmichael17 days ago in Poets
Years
All those years ago, we didn't need the rest of the world. We had our own rhythm, our own quiet language, and a kind of gravity that pulled us together when everything else spun out. I can still feel the exact temperature of those nights, the way your breath felt against my skin before the years piled up between us, back when we were fierce, untouched, and entirely ours.
By Syl De'Vil19 days ago in Poets
