For him, my bra was not made of seashells, but rather of wires and lace and polyester. I did not have a tail. My hair draped across the armrest as if again just released from its braid, free to float. I reveled in the way he looked at me. 

The Myth

to say he groomed you would be to admit that
 he &
 all your glass bottles lied
you’re not special
 sexy
 starstruck sunkissed
nothing about you reeks of radiance 

night-time skincare

Le Bois de Requiem

that evening; it was 10:35 pm as i watched you
admit to the sin of starvation, and i could’ve sworn
my phone screen was glass. and you were looking
straight through it. 

Hannah Rouse

Selected work