I’m already wondering about my writing and these three people who weigh in on everything with likes disappear and I wonder if I’ve transgressed in some deeply embarrassing and previously unknowable way. Like maybe the number of black band t-shirts I wear in photos is too high, or the quality of bands on the shirts I have painstaking curated is not up to snuff. Or maybe I post too many articles about Ian MacKaye and Henry Rollins and have reduced myself to dad rock even though I have no children, or maybe the number of sunset photos in my feed renders me emo in an unsavory way that clashes with my carefully accumulated and maintained second-wave (or is it third-wave?) cred.


by Lilian King Échange The man named Jacques sleeping on my couch only speaks French, so I cannot ask how he got there. Instead we share wine from a box, watching Marvel movies with subtitles. He paints watercolors on the back of cardboard from boxes I thought I already packed, repeating J'ai besoin de medicaments … Continue reading TWO POEMS