When I die, bury me naked. Or burn me. I’ll leave the choice between casket or urn to my loved ones, so long as they keep clothing out of it.
It’s a kitsch I find myself unexpectedly into. I try to keep up with the quick footwork at square dances, I voluntarily turn the radio dial to the country music station, I pronounce the names of nearby towns like the locals do.
I’ve caught a bit of wedding fever. I talk a good game about not getting caught up in that sort of thing, but truthfully, that is a hot load of shit. I frickin’ love weddings.
I had opened up the pomegranates in the first place for the deep red, and dropped the sparkling contents onto a bed of mango and blueberries and lime.
It can exist in its difficulty without any dressing up and still be deserving of love.
The solution to undocumented labor is not the deportation of laborers—it is their documentation.
Saint John once wrote that perfect love casts out fear. I beg to differ.
The sheer novelty of the experience evoked a feeling of shock, as well as a slight blush. Perhaps there was something to this “feeling pretty” thing after all.
We are incessantly inundated with tips, narratives, and guidelines for how to be sexy.
We’re made to want things, to feel a deep burning ache, to pine. It’s innate to being human. We long for intimacy and connection, for a place and a people where we find peace.