This book was written by my favourite (alive) poet. She talked about the writing and release of this book quite a bit, and I bought it as soon as I was able to. So I may be biased, but for good reason in my opinion.
To start, I don’t know how to categorize or explain this book. I cannot tell you if it is fiction or not. I cannot tell whether it’s poetry, or simply writing. This book is beautiful in a horrible way, and if you aren’t one for heavy books, I would not try it. I am one for heavy books, though, so here is a review.
The book follows the main character, who calls themself Mouse. It is simply a recounting of their life. Is it based in reality? I could never tell you, I do not know. The book does not give you anything, you have to fight to understand it. The writing is sporadic, switching topic every few pages, returning, and then never mentioning it again. It shifts between telling a story, and reflections on the world around the author and their thoughts. This book deals with depression, anxiety, horrible relationships, and everything in between. (The fact that it started raining very suddenly as I write this is not lost on me.)
This book is not for if you want a story. This book is not for light reflection. This book is the author’s most arduous experiences, and everything that comes with it. The religious trauma, the OCD, the everything that makes up this book, is so unequivocally good. I was left reeling only 40 something pages in, because it truly is horrible. It’s also so so worth it.