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Mar 2, 2025
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Apr 10, 2025
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😃by Olivia Gatwood
what I mean is that when my grandmother
called to ask why I didn’t respond to her letter,
all I heard was, Why didn’t you
text me back? Why don’t you love me?
And how can I talk about my grandmother
without also mentioning that if everyone is a teen girl, then so are the birds, their soaring
cliques, their squawking throats,
and the sea, of course, the sea,
its moody push and pull, the way we drill
into it, fill it with our trash, take and take
and take from it and still it holds us
each time we walk into it.
What is more teen girl than not being
loved but wanting it so badly
that you accept the smallest crumbs and call
yourself full; what is more teen girl than
my father’s favorite wrench, its eternal loyalty
and willingness to loosen the most stubborn of bolts;
what is more teen girl than my mother’s chewed
nail beds, than the whine of the floorboards in her
house?
What is more teen girl than my dog, Jack,
whose bark is shrill and unnecessary,
who has never once stopped a burglar
or heeled on command but sometimes
when I laugh, his tail wags
so hard it thumps against the wall, sometimes
it sounds like a heartbeat, sometimes I yell at him
for talking too much, for his messy room,
sometimes I put him in pink, striped polos
and I think he feels pretty,
I think he likes to feel pretty,
I think Jack is a teen girl.
and the mountains, oh, the mountains,
what teen girls they are, those colossal show-offs,
and the moon, glittering and distant
and dictating all of our emotions.
My lover’s tender but heavy breath while she sleeps is a teen girl, how it holds me and keeps me awake all at once, how I sometimes wish to silence it, until she turns her body and the room goes quiet and suddenly I want it back. Imagine the teen girls gone from our world, and how quickly we would beg for their return, how grateful would we be then for their loud enthusiasm and ability to make a crop top out of anything. Even the men who laugh their condescending laughs when a teen girl faints at the sight of her favorite pop star, even those men are teen girls, the way they want so badly to be so big and important and worshipped by someone. Pluto, the teen girl, and her rejection from the popular universe, and my father, a teen girl, who insists he doesn’t believe in horoscopes but wants me to tell him about the best traits of a Scorpio, I tell him, We are all just teen girls, and my father, having raised me, recounts the time he found the box of love notes and condom wrappers I hid in my closet, all of the bloody sheets, the missing socks, the radio blaring over my pitchy sobs, the time I was certain I would die of heartbreak and in a moment was in love with a small, new boy, and of course there are the teen girls, the real teen girls, huddled on the subway after school, limbs draped over each other’s shoulders bones knocking, an awkward wind chime and all of the commuters, who plug in their headphones to mute the giggle, silence the gaggle and squeak, not knowing where they learned to do this, to roll their eyes and turn up the music, not knowing where they learned this palpable rage, not knowing the teen girls are our most distinguished professors, who teach us to bury the burst until we close our bedroom doors, and then cry with blood in the neck, foot through the door, face in the pillow, the teen girls who teach us to scream.
My lover’s tender but heavy breath while she sleeps is a teen girl, how it holds me and keeps me awake all at once, how I sometimes wish to silence it, until she turns her body and the room goes quiet and suddenly I want it back. Imagine the teen girls gone from our world, and how quickly we would beg for their return, how grateful would we be then for their loud enthusiasm and ability to make a crop top out of anything. Even the men who laugh their condescending laughs when a teen girl faints at the sight of her favorite pop star, even those men are teen girls, the way they want so badly to be so big and important and worshipped by someone. Pluto, the teen girl, and her rejection from the popular universe, and my father, a teen girl, who insists he doesn’t believe in horoscopes but wants me to tell him about the best traits of a Scorpio, I tell him, We are all just teen girls, and my father, having raised me, recounts the time he found the box of love notes and condom wrappers I hid in my closet, all of the bloody sheets, the missing socks, the radio blaring over my pitchy sobs, the time I was certain I would die of heartbreak and in a moment was in love with a small, new boy, and of course there are the teen girls, the real teen girls, huddled on the subway after school, limbs draped over each other’s shoulders bones knocking, an awkward wind chime and all of the commuters, who plug in their headphones to mute the giggle, silence the gaggle and squeak, not knowing where they learned to do this, to roll their eyes and turn up the music, not knowing where they learned this palpable rage, not knowing the teen girls are our most distinguished professors, who teach us to bury the burst until we close our bedroom doors, and then cry with blood in the neck, foot through the door, face in the pillow, the teen girls who teach us to scream.
Jul 2, 2024
Rec
Respectfully, I’ve got to hand it to Blake Lively’s room temperature IQ ass she really has a hamfistedly algorithmically generated way with words. Every time I see the way she expresses herself to the world I kind of admire it. Like the way she insists on not using a stylist and dressing herself while stubbornly eschewing or being blissfully unaware of any style conventions, much like a proud toddler. The way she just says whatever thoughts miraculously roll through her wasteland of a head as a tumbleweed rolls across an empty dusty Main Street in the old west.
Everyone says they want the unearned confidence of a mediocre straight white man but I want the easy confidence of a beautiful simple marble-mouthed mediocre hot woman like Blake Lively. I don’t really like her but bless her on her journey
Everyone says they want the unearned confidence of a mediocre straight white man but I want the easy confidence of a beautiful simple marble-mouthed mediocre hot woman like Blake Lively. I don’t really like her but bless her on her journey
Feb 13, 2025
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It lends a reflective and wistful tone to written communications imo…
Jul 10, 2025
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My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
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