
ON BEAUTY by Amber Burke
I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.

I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.

Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.

That morning at Rincon marked a change in my relationship to the dinosaurs. Fewer and fewer would muster when I called a session until I stopped doing it so much. Felt like I was bugging them.

I wanted a girl I could take my sunglasses off for. I wanted a girl that wanted to hold my reflection in the center of her eyes.

Mosi is Sprite, Banji is Coca Cola. Whoever loses, does the rounds to check for hippos that might have strayed too far.

What’s it like to die? To stop being. Gone in a moment, carried away on the wind. Does it hurt?

How a mother could be so? Why when she’s in the same room with me I feel swallowed up by a heavy coat pulling me down?

We had sex, he took my blood. Positive ions, positive feedback loops. The cycle perpetuates itself.

Tamberlyn fell on the pavement, hard. Her body slapped against it. It sounded like someone dropped a lot of meat.

On my way out of the closet I noticed a trunk at the edge of the bed… An antique padlock hooked through the clasp, but it was unlatched, so I slid it out and opened the trunk.