Kate Ryan

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.