August 31, 2017

“I did not know how to help the man. Sickness seemed so much worse now that we were locked up within the house. Even a sneeze seemed to be a harbinger of death and the man was considerably sicker than that. He frothed in his sleep, he screamed. I poured salt over his stomach, his face…”


August 30, 2017

“Just after the dream, the man grew sick. He stumbled beside me, then lay upon the floor, his body overheated and sweating. I felt for his pulse but the thrumming was very weak. I spooned water into his mouth but the man turned his head to the side…”

August 29, 2017

“I dreamed the dead mounded outside the front door. Everything beyond the house withered. Every house, sidewalk, and street was a cemetery. The dead were flea-bitten and mangy, starved until their bones pushed out from their flesh, had crumpled stomachs that were torn down the middles by their weak crawls over stony and pitted paths…”

August 27, 2017

“The man and I closed the doors. It was better this way, for the house’s many spaces to be lessened. We did not trust that one or the other might not disappear into the darkness and be gone. Door after door was closed, with a click, a slam. I felt great relief each time a door wavered in its frame, then sealed, the dark shut up behind so that I did not have to see it again…”

August 15, 2017

“The man’s fever was gone soon enough. With its end, came the man’s terrible hunger. He and I went through the house, eating bits of flooring and wallpaper, pieces of chipped paint, hair. None of what we put in our mouths was enough…”

August 6, 2017

“It was a dark house and I did not want to go. It was too quiet, too cold. I told the man no. The house was haunted. The man pulled me and locked the door. The panic then, the blindness. I could not find my way; I clung to the man. He was not so brave…”

July 31, 2017

“In the dark, the man and I sat at the dinner table with a perfectly molded green gelatin quivering between us. The gelatin was a thing of beauty. At certain angles, I saw the man through it and he saw me. We did not cut the gelatin. We did not want to eat it. We only sat it down and pretended we were happy…”

July 29, 2017

“Someone (something) knocked upon the house. I looked from the man to the sound. The man said we must never answer knocking. Those who knocked were dead. Only the dead existed beyond the house. Only the dead could survive the constant dark. They festered and dragged that rot to our front door so that we might be tainted by a touch of their melting fingers…”

July 20, 2017

“I tried being good. I thought it obsessively while I scrubbed the windows with torn paper towels and strong-smelling cleaner. Be good, be good, be good. My fingers caught in the paper towel’s holes and squeaked the glass, smudging what I wiped. I looked from the paper towels to the smudge marks and gave up on cleaning the glass…”

July 18, 2017

“There was great desperation then, one I wanted to cut from myself with a knife. I wanted to hang from the ceiling fan, heave myself again and again against the front door, the closet doors. I wanted to cut a hole into the wall, step inside, and be gone, sealed up, swallowed. I wanted to feel everything and nothing, all at once…”

July 12, 2017

“I slept but woke in the night with a pressure bearing down upon my chest. The pressure was so much that I choked. I tried calling for the man but my voice did not rise past a whisper. Beside the man, I whispered: Help, help. He did not hear me. He snored and coughed…”

July 11, 2017

“I did not want to live. I wanted to open myself and scrape until there was nothing left beneath my skin. I wanted the bones cleaned, the wetness dried. I avoided looking into the mirrors. I did not like to see myself now. I was afraid of how hollow my eyes looked…”

July 5, 2017

“When I felt that I was beginning to slip inside my skin, to go careening down the tightness of vacant mental hallways, to stab myself in a thumping ball of gelatin within my brain, I thought of those things I knew were true: […] I was sometimes afraid of the dark, not of the dark itself but of what might have been breathing just near me, its mouth wet and black, its throat endless…”

June 30, 2017

“A chicken corpse was not enough to restore what I lost. I tried drawing my insides onto a piece of white paper, scrawling with red crayon and pencil, gouging at the sheet, stacking layers of pigments until the image was textured, drawing, drawing. I held the paper away from myself, I clutched it to my chest. I said: This is my womb. I said: This is what I lost…”

June 28, 2017

“At the back of the freezer, a frozen chicken corpse. Chicken with head, limbs, and wings attached. Chicken with a beak and foggy expression. I held the chicken in my arms. I loved that chicken like it was my flesh-and-blood child. I loved that chicken the way I thought I could never love the pregnancy. I named the chicken Marlinchen. Marlinchen looked out the kitchen window with milky eyes…”

June 27, 2017

“Just the thought of raw meat being in the house made me sick now. Packet after bleeding plastic packet fell from the refrigerator to the floor, ripping so that the leaking left red splotches. Packet after packet. This meat made me think of death and frenzy and sourness. This meat reminded me that it was not impossible for great stretches of body and land to go sour with barren rot overnight…”

June 20, 2017

“The man thought it might be nice for us to stop staring at nothing. The walls were not entertaining and he worried that the house was becoming too stagnant for me. He thought if I did not see something different, then I might search the house for anything with a point, then drive it deep within myself. The man chose a movie for us to watch. It was a horror movie—we often liked to be scared…”

June 19, 2017

“[…] Once upon a time, I was a woman who lived in a clean, white house with a man who was sometimes very nice and sometimes not. In that house, I tried my best to be womanly but failed each time. I did not know how to use an oven, I did not like sweeping dust from corners, I did not care that a thin film coated the window glass…”

June 16, 2017

“It seemed I lay in the bed forever before those white-clothed godheads deemed me sane. They swore I was better now, my head clear. I had the emptiness I wanted, what more could I do? What was there left to destroy? They lifted me from the mattress, propped me up. Someone brushed my hair, someone clothed me, someone eased the plastic tube from my arm…”

June 15, 2017

I imagined myself back with the sad man, wandering tight rooms while holding our loathsome corpse of a child (it did not suck or cry, its eyes were smeared with thick black). The child smelled of death and mold and age. The sad man smelled of what he was—stagnant and crippled and dry. I walked with the corpse child knowing full well I would die here…”

June 5, 2017

“I dreamed of fully formed, squealing children. There were many of them, more than I could pass. I could not stand the look of them. The children dribbled spit and had crusted eyes. Their skin was clammy and slimy. The children were covered in filth. They followed me. They had large, sharp teeth. The children did not let me sleep…”

May 27, 2017

“I was supposed to be happy. The man said so. Our families said so. Anyone I met said so. I was supposed to be so, so happy. This was the female dream. This was what was strived for. Marriage. A home. Pregnancy. So why was I miserable? Sometimes the man climbed atop me and I felt that I might suffocate from his weight…”

May 22, 2017

“I should not have bitten the man. I should not have tasted the salt of his blood. I should not have tempted the pregnancy. But I did. I bit and I tasted and now the pregnancy wanted me to kill the man. It wanted me to stab his face, to open the soft skin in curling wet flaps…”