Disjointed into heavy chunks I lie and swear that a bed of stones is better than the sea. Here at least my thigh conforms to beauty measured by perimeter – only and weight – not. Standard applies to my parts, inch by perfectly aligned inch, among which my mind grows flat and I observe what I cannot become: this radiant dancer tango-tripping through teen zines – I am punctured by air hollow with superbly stiff tango legs and a shadow that keeps whispering norms into my (intangible) ears.
The Pine Cone Review 