One of my grandma's first memories is of huddling under a bomb shelter in London during the Blitz. Surprisingly, it wasn't a traumatic experience. Being an innocent, bright-eyed, three-year-old caught up in the horrors of humanity’s mechanized abstractions, she garnered a lot of sympathy. When the loud noises started, the adults would give her candy, sing her songs, tell her stories. It’s amazing how under the right circumstances bombs can become associated with bon-bons.

I don’t mean to trivialize the...

My town is a Victorian woman who has lost her virginity, trying to hide her bloody underwear. The girlish lilac so many houses are slathered in feels off, like rough on already flushed cheeks. 

There is a man with a brass pocket watch who conducts a tour of all the haunted mansions and sewers, after an hour he sends the tourists off for pizza and cheap souvenirs. But we’re still living here, paying way too much in rent.

I have...

The refrigerator has skin.

It hums, cold through the cold night, singing to itself.

There is an emptiness wound into our mechanisms. 

In the dark, I poured myself a cup of orange juice. 

Acid, lips, lungs, I couldn't swallow. I rejected the sun. 

Like refrigerators, we are haunted by a timeless past. 

We hum our ancestral melodies to keep our insides from spoiling. 

I once heard a story about a cat.

It barfed up its guts after drinking antifreeze.

I...