Your best friend calls you up to tell you he saw your boyfriend on the Internet doing some “sex stuff.”
Baby’s kissing bruises into her boyfriend’s neck, branding him black-and-blue.
I’m pretty sure that ISIS is to blame for the death of my grandmother.
The movie you both went to see isn’t important. How this date leads to the car, to the windows fogging is what matters.
Her placenta, a jackfruit dangles beneath— and patriarchs return beloved amongst the trees.
I find it hard not being a hero.