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Do Not Soften Your Edges It Only Makes You Easier to Consume

Everything you’ve heard about me

is true. I won’t worship

that which wants to wipe me clean—

I’m always clean.

I am not a nice girl,

and I don’t want to hook up in your basement,

watch you loosen my pith

moan while I vacate

until I’m the ceiling.

Your boyfriend is a vegetarian

who eats chicken when he’s drunk

and loves Murakami.

Your dad hates the sound of your mother’s breath

while she sleeps with her legs crossed.

Your son will be loose hands in your purse,

your lingerie habit,

your unsent high school suicide note,

and yes the world has teeth

and a stomach full of acid.

You who was beautiful and hides candy

in the sock drawer. You who pray in the same bed

you sex in. You want roundness. You seek

permission and bite your nails.

Every coin in the pond you swore to

is an alibi of goodness.


OLIVIA TREYNOR is a Barnard College student from the upper half of California. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Cutbank, Yemassee, phoebe journal, and elsewhere. She loves lakes but is scared of the ocean.


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