“in the plumed summers of Los Angeles” by Sasha on the couch

Wednesday June 10, 2020
5 minutes
_______ my loved blacknesses & some blackness I knew
Khadijah Queen

You sit across the table from the person you promised forever too
You remember that when you said it you felt your stomach turn
How could someone twenty five or otherwise know anything about
The hours of a whole long life?

You sit across the table and you look at the hands of the man who
Keeps saying “My client”
They are hands that have trim nails and hair on the knuckles
Hands that tie garbage bags and turn steering wheels and eat burgers

You love this man across from you the divide of oak table and sadness
Reaching across is what you want to do but you sit on your hands
Palms pressing into the tan leather of the chair
You don’t see the lips you spent days kissing in the beginning

You see lips that need water and redemption and a break
Cheeks concave under freshly shaven skin
You wish that you’d worn something beloved instead of this
New striped sweater

“I have a friend who loves your photography” by Sasha on her porch

Thursday June 29, 2017
5 minutes
From a text

You told me that you wanted to take my picture
but when you did
seventeen weeks later
it was a roaring disappointment.
I thought you got me like you had
actually read my birth chart
like you actually knew
the last four digits of my phone number.
I thought you were joking when you said
you had a girlfriend.
What kind of women am I when I hate on
her for being on your lips
when we’re naked?
What kind of woman am I when I shove off
and over and imagine the stillness of her
there a phantom limb of a maybe?
Maybe it has nothing to do with
the woman-ness that I always
bring it back to.
Maybe my bottom line is a
different kind of colour.

“There’s a lot of blood in your lips” by Julia at JJ Bean on Main

Thursday November 3, 2016 at JJ Bean
5 minutes
Overheard at JJ Bean

I sucked her bottom lip slowly like I was trying to extract a stinger without disrupting the blood vessels. I wanted to taste her. I wanted to be gentle. In the hollowed buzz between us I could tell which breath belonged to her and which didn’t. I suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of not sharing air. What had I been doing up until this point? Had I ever considered I had been hiding my truth somewhere deep in the shame of me–that tended to burrow underneath expectations and the holy grail of perfection? Had I even lived at all? We didn’t have anywhere else to be, no other versions of ourselves to uphold. I made a promise to only stop if she asked me to.

“It smells like fucking McDonald’s” by Julia on the walk home

Monday March 21, 2016
5 minutes
overheard on the 99

Remind me not to want to fuck Elliot for future’s sake. I swear to god this kid’s skin actually reeks of Big Mac. I saw him mowing down chicken nuggets this morning and then he somehow had special sauce on his face all through 3rd period so someone please explain that to me. When I first saw him and his giant sensual lips I was like, whoa, damn, hot damn, good lord, seriously, holy shit, no way, seriously, take me, touch me, holy shit, snail trail, holy shit. I would have wanted him to mack up on me but I think if he were to now it would have a completely different meaning. But it’s cause he also plays the guitar and that’s a huge turn on for me. But the excessive deep fry that seeps out of his pores is the opposite of everything I’ve ever wanted. I wonder if I can wear an inconspicuous nose plug???

“COLORED EMOTIONS” by Sasha on her couch

Monday, August 19, 2013
5 minutes
Night Moves record

I see the emotions
Before they arrive
I see the water break
Liquid yellow
Oozing magenta
Blue red green and fuchsia
Swirling like gasoline in water
Like food colouring in cream cheese icing
Moving like rainbows on the waterfall
Then they come
The things that allude us
The ones that shake fists
And curl toes
The flush of the cheek of your lover
In love
I want to kiss your anger
Right on the lips
Slipping tongue into rage into azure blue
I want to paint your sadness
With my paintbrush
My elbow
Smearing all the colours
Making the very best brown I can

“This job makes me” by Sasha on her couch

Thursday, March 28, 2013
5 minutes
All My Friends Are Dead
Avery Monsen and Jory John

They were at a standstill. They were at that fork in the road where it might turn into a fight or they might kiss, tenderly, gently, on the mouth. “This job, is, is… is who I am,” she said. He shook his head, as he often does when she makes such proclamations. “It is, Tony,” she said, indignant, child-like. You know those times, when you look at a face you know so, so, well as though you don’t? As though they are a stranger? When, really, this face is the furthest thing from it? He looked at her like that. He saw each strand of her hair. Each one. Each one hundred and twenty seven thousand strands. He finally saw the fleck of yellow in her right eye. Good grief! How had he missed it? He noticed how, now, her lips slanted slightly down, when resting, as opposed to slightly up. How they used to do. Tony touched the corner of Marguerite lip. She let him. He was surprised. “It’s hard being so different from you, sometimes,” he said, finally. “I know,” she responded, tears beginning to swirl. “I need you to support me, Tony, even though you don’t agree with what I do.” Tony moved his finger from where it was to the small, gold, cross hanging from his neck. His looked up, tilting his head back, thinking about what the expression might be on God’s face, watching them.

“Wonderstruck” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Tuesday, November 20, 2012
5 minutes
Glow magazine
Winter, 2012

You wonderstruck me hard. I couldn’t believe that you liked yellow, and Joan Baez, and carrot soup. Just like me. You wonderstruck me hard. You walked into the room and it didn’t matter that you were married, or that I was confused about my feelings for my first-time love, or that there were thirteen other people there who thought that they knew us both. We shared a joint on the front steps of that hilarious house with the talking clock and the beef tenderloin. You told me that you hadn’t smoked since last christmas. You asked me for my dealers phone number and I programmed mine into your phone instead, smiling slightly, and mostly thinking about how I wanted to kiss between your nipples, in that special spot, reserved for secrets and sweat. You wonderstruck me hard. It wasn’t because you were fifteen years older and were already a little salt-and-pepper, and it wasn’t because you had exceptional shoes and it wasn’t because I couldn’t actually have you. When you looked at my lips in an inquisitive way things inside me hummed, things inside me that I’d never even felt or known before.