
On a hot Thursday morning, deep in month eight of the red tide outbreak, Cicely and Zinnia walked together to Zinnia’s hideout to retrieve a cold bag of placentas.

How does he know I am not a boy anyway? Who said? What is a boy? I’d ask someone but I don’t care.

I feel like I want to apologize for the quality of these postcards. I wish they had been better ones, and that I could have sent you images of sunsets and palm trees and dazzling flamingos.

Disney stuck an explosive in the mascot’s mouth, lit it up, then pop, smiled at his blackface in the mirror

I’m an eel until I inhale water—then I am messy, lightheaded—like after too much laughing or kissing.