Thursday July 6, 2017
Dry Lips Oughta Move To Kapuskasing
Tamara Matthews you better have a good reason why you’re late.
I do, but you definitely don’t want to hear it.
Sounds like an excuse to me.
Alright, my butthole was bleeding this morning and I wasn’t sure if I was going to die or what.
Yes. So. It’s fine now thanks for asking. I’m not, as it turns out, dying. I just wiped too hard, you know?
Thank you. I get it.
I mean it’s happened to me before, but less. I thought this was a hemorrhoid which is no picnic because when my ex-boyfriend had one once, sitting down made him cry.
Okay, okay, go sign in.
Will do, sir. Will do.
Sunday June 18, 2017
They Used To Call Me Snow White…But I Drifted
I wish we didn’t have to fight so hard for our bodies. How can one opinion be the ignition behind so much devestation. All these lies we told ourselves because of the lies we heard first from someone else’s head. It must have been a group. There must have been a threat lobbied at enough of them to cause a movement. Why hold some bodies back if nothing is at risk? But what was at risk? What could it have possibly been to mean so much? What is the small bone we must find before breaking all of ours instead?
Monday October 10, 2016
The Rising Strong Manifesto
I’m sorry for my chin hairs – – –
my legs \\ my armpits \/
my belly >
“my” is pejorative
none of these parts are mine
I laugh because the cry is too big for my one bedroom apartment
I’m sorry for the unpalatable opinions
on the table between us
swirling squash and shit and sex and
My dreams of motherhood don’t betray my dreams
of taking over the world
with stories of chin hairs
legs armpits bellies
Shred the TRUMP cards and recycle them
Maybe they will end up
paper that you’ll write me a letter on
Tuesday May 3, 2016
From the Twitter account of the woman sitting in front of Julia
Grief looks good on her. At least that’s what people keep saying. Not directly, but that’s what they’re saying, under the tight lipped smiles. Mostly other women. Sometimes men, but it’s quiet, it’s less direct. She’s running every day, because she can’t sit still. Her feet shuffle when she’s at the table, opening the mail. She tries to write in the journal that her sister sent her from the New Age gift shop, but the pen won’t move. Meanwhile, her knees jump. She runs in the ravine, where the trees haven’t really changed since she was a child. She starts drinking all of her meals, unable to chew, almost unable to swallow.
Thursday April 28, 2016
From an Instagram post
my back the topography of the himalayas the andes the rockies
my insides the colour of the deepest places of the sea
it just keeps getting harder
mom is in the kitchen gorging on chocolate chips and
betrayal sister is dancing circles
in the living room
dervish of wonder of bewilderment
i’ll wait for you on the corner the moment the sun sinks
below the horizon
Friday April 22, 2016
You’re sweet. You let me put my cold hands in your armpits when I need to warm up, when my teeth are chattering and I’m complaining excessively. You squirm the first few seconds and you dance around but you don’t make me take them out. That’s one of my favourite types of touching. I feel taken care of by you and your overheated underarms. You are always a furnace, kicking off articles of clothing in your sleep, ripping up sheets, opening windows in the minus 30s or 40s. The only time I ever remember warming you up was when we went skinny-dipping in your family’s salt-water pool. It wasn’t warm yet, but we were high and felt free, and so I cupped your nut-sack in my hands so they wouldn’t retract and we stood like that for a while, impersonating Ethel Merman and smiling big at each other.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
From a flyer
Holly grips her Minolta like an infant and looks at me, checking the light on my face, squinting her eyes. I’ve never done this before and I feel sick with nerves.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Holly asks. Her Australian accent still catches me off guard.
“Yes, I guess I am,” I say, looking at my feet. My toenails need trimming.
“You aren’t going to get my feet in the shot, are you?” I scratch my thigh and then my balls. It’s a nervous habit. Holly catches me and then laughs.
“Good!” She says, snapping a series of photographs. “I’m glad you’re relaxing.”