The more I read, the more I’m convinced that there’s no meaningful difference between fiction and the memoir we call nonfiction.
When it comes to young adult literature, I love too much. Asking me to pick five of my favorite feminist young adult books is like asking a gardener to choose 5 of their favorite flowers.
Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.
His mouth was soft. He could swear, make out, act indifferent, complain, and get embarrassed all in five minutes.
She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.
Together we are invincible, I said in the aftermath, my body humming pleasantly. We were many things, but we were not invincible.
I could only spread my legs so wide because the dress was attached to garters which were attached to fishnets which were stuck in my boots.
Holy Cookie Monster! Sesame Street just turned House of Cards into a fable worthy of Aesop.