Online writing home of Rebecca Brown, friendly monster and future hermit. She also publishes under the pen name Julia Illich. Twitter: babookreader

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[golden age]


The Maltese boy says to me you had your chance
at being seventeen and you screwed it up it’s time for you to
fucking grow up. About me: I enjoy finding strange
men who don’t like themselves a whole lot
and who find me thin and angelic on Detroit
public transportation—waiting. I am always waiting
for a new way to horrify my ancestors. The Maltese boy
my classmate doesn’t meet me on public transportation,
he crashes into me the first day I don’t participate in class.
He tells me to grow up when I tell him I’ve fucked three
dudes who “found” me on a bus at night. I say “found”
because, as I said, I was actually waiting; the Maltese boy
says that’s freaky but adds I’m no better and he kisses
my inner thigh and I feel the whites of my eyes going black—
his irises and pupils going white—this occurs Tuesday night,
mind you. Tomorrow he will drive me to school. Tomorrow
we are going to listen to Kat Dahlia and pretend this isn’t
the pink electricity I always used to write about. Maybe it’s
not. I can see it being something more like a body behind a
dumpster coming back to life; zombies, Detroit, everything here
coming back to life. Our eyes all black or all white. Two dark
bodies on a bed or in a car, touching—do you love me? do you
love me?—and I want to tell him I do, but I don’t, I tell him
I want to not be alive when you suck my dick instead.

we are still changing.
we are still alive.


when you were young you kept spiders in the pockets of your coat and you learned how to kiss me before you even said my name, and then screaming it like i’d end up screaming yours into all that cold air, and us in the world like we were the only ones, and how that was all you wanted you said, and how i loved you in the way that when we weren’t together i was thinking of how fast your heart was beating, always warm hands and your skin smelling like bread and coal, for your namesake and your sisters born with pyrite eyes after you, this isn’t an elegy until i see your ghost in this car, until your mother’s heart gets a hole, 


chelsea martin


chelsea martin

sorry for mistaking you for my safe place

i just wanna find someone whose floor i can lay on and have it feel like home 

my parents are eating the cake you made and it is lime green 
and they love it. i texted you three hours ago to see if you wanted
to hang out and you didn’t text me back so i’m guessing maybe
that’s a no. i told them you made it just because for no reason
really because the fact that you think i’m cool enough
to make a cake for is something that i don’t understand.

lately everything i’m saying is like hey look at me 
i need someone to see me and i’m really sorry but
i really want things to go back to the way they were
last year because i only miss people who don’t love me
and i guess i just want to say sorry for that.

I Killed That Damn Coyote In Me


i hear your voice through a wood flute
i miss diners i’ve never been to, pink waitress uniforms 
17 year old girls you hope are still enrolled in school but you know
better, you take your coffee and pie and grin and she will grin back 

i’ve been dreaming of you baby i’ve been thinking about you in grass fields
i’ve been telling sarah and cait i dont need to slow myself down anymore
chemically, i dont need to get silly to say things i mean
i know i keep saying it but i gotta learn to play guitar
because sometimes how i feel about you isn’t a phrase or a word
it’s a stony-sounding 4 string cluttering like rain along an aluminum gutter
for 3 hours while you’re doing your homework and i’m daydreaming
because i’m an english major and you’re a world-ruler, some exhausting

and you care about politics
and you always paint your nails some sparkly pink color
and you always eat vegetables and drink water and never repeat outfits
and i come to your room drenched in sweat slightly bloody
from skateboarding all afternoon
and you make me take my clothes off and say i cant sit on the furniture
and hang my sweaty clothes like towels and i eat all your cheese sticks

and whoa you’re pretty
and i wanna say this thing but i can’t do it right enough 
i guess i could show you ‘3am’ by gregory alan isakov and you’d get mostly
the idea
but like
i think of doing things i love and then i think of doing those things with you
and those things become so much better it’s not meant for me,
i can never take you applepicking, i can never take you hiking,
i can never see the frosted porch of my grandparents house in new hampshire
with you, or the apple-shaped top of the trees in their front yard,
or lie in the acre of field near the burnt barn in the backyard
because that would be too much great in one small space
too close to me
and i would feel guilty for that great for like a month after

or like
i like long car rides at night apart from you

and pressing my head against a cold window
and listening to songs i’ve showed you when we needed a playlist to study to
and thinking about your warm body in the morning under the covers