Body By Numbers.

i count my teeth with my tongue sliding it over each surface they could be cleaner i count my lashes with my eyes half-closed and blissful they could see clearer i count my breasts with your hands tight grip and whispers they could be fuller i count each breath with my lungs i stretch and […]

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How To Burn A Bridge.

Originally posted on my friend’s writing website. The link is no longer active but I wanted to share this anyway. It has always been oddly disconcerting to see my entire life squared away in cardboard boxes and dull black garbage bags. I’ve moved thirty times in twenty years and the sight of a bare apartment […]

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I Am The Sea.

In my darkest crevices, he whispered Tongue-snake slithering across his lips Soft breaths betraying sharper words across my skin Myself I gave him like a gift He blossomed like a flower inside my body Every petal unfurling like a scream My tears the rain to feed the earth beneath us My cries the wind to […]

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The Monster In Jack.

It’s been a cold winter for Toronto, with wind frigid enough to freeze your nostrils together. Perfect weather to bundle up under a warm blanket, sip on some canned hot chocolate (because let’s be real, I’ll probably NEVER make anything from scratch ever), and read a cheery tale of mayhem and murder at the behest […]

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Writing Through It.

I’m by no means an expert when it comes to writing. I’m an avid devourer of books and the written word has been my religion for as long as I can remember. When I was growing up, friendless and shy, there were always books. My family wasn’t exactly affluent but books opened up a whole […]

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Salt Meat: Part Three

PART ONE | PART TWO She says it’s a game. He’s asleep, he won’t notice if we take the remote from him and watch YTV. Baseball is boring and he started snoring fifteen minutes ago so it must be safe. So we crawl across the living room, our matching track pants loudly scraping the carpet, […]

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Salt Meat: Part Two

“YOU CAN’T SAY THOSE WORDS IN THIS HOUSE!” My father screamed. He stormed into the living room, where I had set myself up with a blanket on the floor. My mother stepped in, eager to defend me. “She’s not saying SHIT, Charlie! She’s saying CHIT, like a squirrel!”

But my father would have none of it. He was enraged that I had dared to defile his house with my prepubescent profanity and I would therefore have to be punished.

It was a long time before I would be able to read aloud again.

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