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[She’s literally my girl, I know she wouldn’t do that]

God forbid women do anything in this society.

God forbid a woman eats. God forbid she has a

treat. She’s been fighting these allegations for

years. Always “Eve ate the apple,” never “Eve

was manipulated into eating the apple.” Sure,

she ate it first. If a talking snake told me this

white old man was lying and the apple held

wisdom and power, I'd be munching on that

immediately. But they framed her. Blame Adam

or God for not welcoming her and giving her

a rundown. The real villain in Genesis is God––

that man knew Eve would be tricked and did

nothing to stop it. Besides, God told Adam

not to eat from the tree. Not Eve. And God

didn't get mad until Adam ate the apple. Not

Eve. There's a reason it's an Adam's apple.

And even if it was her fault, I support women’s

wrongs. Miniskirts wouldn’t be a thing if she

didn’t eat it. She was just a girl in the world, just

wanted something sweet. Like what, she was

supposed to starve? A girl can't even have a little

snack anymore. Anyway, you think I believe a

manmade Bible? I met Eve once in the bathroom

of a Mitski concert and she said he ate the whole

thing and wouldn’t even share. Such a man thing

to do. They love to slander a woman's name. Wait

until you hear about my girl Lilith.



[Titan duplex]

All I need is the list and a cig,

a perc and the girls he’s dreamt about.

A perc and the girls who still haunt me––

with this knowledge I’d want to leave him.

With this knowledge I wish I could leave him,

for no man is worth the ocean’s floor.

Whether worth the ocean floor or not,

I’ll be back, promise. And more than five bodies.

Back, as promised, and more than five bodies:

the Kraken leashed, Davy in his own locker.

Kraken leashed, Davy locked, Bermuda squared,

the damn seven continents back in one.

The seven damned continents in one piece,

oh, all I need is the list and a cig.



[My boyfriend and I call it International Valencia]

You do look radiant. Guess one man's

environmental disaster is another man's

slay. Our sinuses are like an ashtray, but

we’re literally living in a Bertolucci film.

I already thought about how the lighting

will make for better selfies, and there will

be fewer people out. Is that so wrong?

I have thought this more than I would

like to admit.

My niece said she feels like we’re living

in a 2012 Instagram filter, and she’s right.

The lighting is unreal––golden hours

upon hours upon hours, and the sun sets

pink too. It's giving Italian dusk and

Aperol spritz on the terrace. Smells like

glamping at a chic spa: smoked maple

wood, cedar. Global environmental

catastrophe but make it chic.

And only six cigarettes? Oh, we’re good,

I literally quit smoking two days ago and

God is like No, you didn’t. Six cigarettes

is a mild night out, just a night out in

Bushwick. Smoked 20 a day at one point,

I’ll be ok for a day or two––who’s got the

lighter? We’re all going to look incredible

during the apocalypse. You glow in the

smog, honey. It's worth the carcinogens.



[Men seeking mothers, not partners]

Do you know what it means? I bet on

losing dogs? I fought the urge to sing

this every time I held him in my arms.

I’ve done this to one boy I loved and

very much done this in my delusions.

I just want my boy back. Want to hold

him like this again, lay with him, sing it

to him, stroke his hair, tell him he’s my

baby, but he doesn’t deserve my type of

love and he knows. I’m so bad at hiding

my love for him.

Oh, to do this to someone––I’ll do this

for somebody if they’ll let me! I’d be so

good to someone. Is this too much to

ask? I hope to be his best comfort one

day, though I have never been loved this

much. Where does everyone find their

partners filled with such love?



[An influencer plans to break up with their partner]

It’s late and I’m tired but we’re

misunderstanding each other, I think.

My God you are luminous. Still,

witnessing you is staring heartbreak

in the face.

Love is not the two-dimensional thing

people like to imagine, not something to

hoard. Is there even a The One? I

don’t think there is. You find a One

and make them The One over time.

You just pick and do your best.

Mostly, I'd hate to be with someone

who sees me as a means to achieve a

goal. I’m not a leading love expert. I’m

trying to leave room for love in my life in

whatever form it comes in. But Oh lord,

I fear this could happen to me one day.

I want to be a choice. That is true love,

my dear. You love exactly how I love,

and I love that. Oh, look at me with

the honey glows after hearing this.



[Drunk alter egos can be enchanting]

I get drunk and start walking in circles, it

soothes me. You get drunk and say you’re a

bog siren. What does this even mean? Who

knows. I’ll listen to anything you say. I’d

follow you to any bog anywhere. I am not

God's strongest soldier. I’d be dead in that bog.

I understand the sailors now. See if I was a

pirate, I’d be a goner, I’d have had no chance,

babes. I’d be smitten and I’d listen to your song

and I’d have absolutely fallen victim to your

song and I’d crash on the rocks leading to a

watery demise. You could’ve lured me in,

would’ve had me crawling on all fours,

would’ve called me in with that siren song,

would’ve violently thrashed my head beneath

the cold, bitter water.

This is exactly why I can't be a sailor––it

would work on me. And, well, it worked. It

was witching hour, but with you, every hour

is witching hour. So fine, I’ll be a sailor––

we’re sailors now boys! I should pray I never

see you out at sea. Please let me be your

sailor. I’m thinking of crashing my ship

upon the rocks. I’m crashing my boat. I’m

diving headfirst into the water. Drown me.

Drag me to the depths. And you did. And

I was last seen alive in the bog.


Meg Curran (she/her) is a writer currently based in Norway. She researches and writes about culture, heritage, and food. Her poetry has appeared in In Parentheses, JAKE, Talk Vomit, and others.

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