Editor’s Note:

Brenna Cheyney’s Uninloveable is a mottled, vibrant collection of poetic prose that’s impossible to read passively. Clever, tough, yet unrelentingly vulnerable, the work flat-out refuses to hold anything back as its narrator grapples with disappointment and bad luck – both in love, and in the ambiguous intentions of other people. A combination of inner monologue and comedic narrative brush up against the absurd – or, at the very least, the fantastic.

Truthfully, Uninloveable feels like it should come with a power cord... and surge protector. It will leave you elbows-deep in splotches of neon paint, or suffering from an empathy stomach ache – with hardly any in-betweens. My suggestion? Don’t fight it. Make a mess, dance, check your Twitter, gulp it down. And for the love of god, don’t read this under a tree in a park. Drink a lot of coffee. Read it while you drive. Uninloveable is alive, and it wants you to remember that you fucking are, too. --Dani Oliver