I had someone tell me a few months that they wrote a poem about me as a way to understand what did not happen between us. I bet that makes you feel good, they said, resenting me for what they had created in themselves. All I could think about was how I had hidden the photos we took together inside a book whose title I can no longer remember, unable to bear them. They told me as a way to wound; I did not, for the same reason.

Thistle is a lovely word to pronounce—it feels like drawing a bow and releasing it. An arrow at the ready; a word on the tongue.

A character who dies in his son’s armor at the hand of his brother...

Vanilla vodka in pasta sauce

Critics forget that Caleb Landry Jones in Dracula will allow me to indulge in what cinema once knew but has since forgotten: an intriguing face.