I liked this a lot. It's plainly written. Rainey might hate this, but: it reminds me of what alt-lit was trying to do 2000 - 2010, before it fell off. The poems here communicate a weird, fucked up reality of the present in that not only are we always performing, we're always aware of our performance. How come it feels like no one feels this way? I don't know. I liked this truism a lot:
"I can read abt his relationship on the internet, so I don’t rlly need him 2 tell me"
Very real. What's the point in talking at all? In keeping up with friends, lovers? Rainey negotiates these in an intelligent, moving way.
"Spiders are solitary and they live in bathrooms and eat bugs that could damage the house. Spiders are girls and they shoot white thread from their thighs. Peacock, the bird who wants to be in love.
We went to Nashville for one night and I choked you on the floor of our friend’s house, I’ll never write about this again.
There is blood on the toilet paper, cat poop smell in the hallway. Google Maps will take me home from this room."
"When I go home, I write some more of my novel about what it’s like to talk to a man who you hate. Disappointment is hilarious."
This hits all the sweet spots of what I love in poetry. She writes in a relatable, blunt manner that mimics that scattershot way my brain works. Reminds me that I need to read more poetry because it tends to hit me pretty hard when I do. Definitely worth checking out!