I wanna


a.MOVE, take me:





c.look at some art:




Home Town Cryptid by Caitlin White

A lot of the girls I talk to on Tinder want to fuck the moth man

Must be something about those bright red eyes, they say

he’ll fuck you hard enough to make a bridge collapse

Would you agree that queer coding is what brought about the monster fuckers, or is it some

baser instinct that makes being haunted                  kinda hot


low key I’d like to be a cryptid, in a small town weirdo kind of way

it’s a kind of fame best suited to the hard core eccentrics who refuse to give interviews

to be known for being unknown

give me a piece of cardboard to write my prophesies, give me a bird to carry on my shoulder, give me a purpose and a mission statement for my website’s about section, I won’t let you down

when I paint the town strange there’ll be no stone left unturned

because I will walk around flipping them


we can carefully craft this lore have kids chanting my name in their bathroom mirror TikToks expertly lip singing to my episode of B*zzF**d Unsolved


Sucking on a disco biscuit¹ watching her bosom rise and fall distractedly in autumn, 1975 by Rebecca Gross

So I stumble into the bar and ask them for a lemon wedge – “for what?” – well, to gouge my eyes out. I have a professor who pretends to gouge his eyes out during class – Think: Oedipus meets William Butler Yeats.


It confounds and intrigues me.


Years before, my father is confounded when he rubs my back lightly on a walk and feels the thin straps of a training bra grace my shoulder blades. My 10-year-old self, who apparently embarrasses easily, runs home crying. My mother asks what happened and I tell her. As my father finally walks through the door, out of breath from running to catch up with me, they each exchange a cruel moment of laughter with one another. But I imagine my father is just masking his horror at my impending adulthood with a false guffaw.


It is October and it is Almost Halloween and our mutual recognition of my Budding Breasts means he can no longer Dress Me like Tinkerbell and Hold Me on his hip during a rainy trick-or-treating evening. My breasts: an end of an era. We sacrifice closeness out of fear of appearing inappropriate.


He would die a year later and we would have shared fewer hugs in that final year than we should have.



She places sliced lemons instead of cucumbers on her eyelids as she pops a quaalude and coates her skin in a thick layer of baby oil. She likes the vague stinging of it all –

The acid burning her vision

The energy it takes to stay awake

The top layer of her dermis reddening and peeling –


A palm tree pared in palm springs in autumn.


She settles into the sedation of the 714. Behind the acidic layer of citrus, her eyes dart back and forth; her mountainous breasts rise and fall in a hypnotic state, and she curses them – Not just for existing as overgrown flesh but for their penchant to puncture the relationship between her child and adult self – between the Self who knew her father and the Self she knows now.


¹ A slang term for a quaalude.