sunburn is exactly what it tells you it is. it is hot to the touch, red raw, past lives peeling away under the big, damning flame. it sits underneath the skin, a warm hum that reminds you that you have been too indulgent, too sinful, and it packs your flesh full with shame.

lucy is a character that i could live in forever. her voice is so ripe with want and wonder—is blooming with passion and possibility—while at the same time rotting with an undying submission to anyone she has ever cared for or wanted to please. she is such a well-crafted exploration of adolescence and coming-of-age, true to both the abandon and insecurity that act as the two poles of growing up.

i have already written a bit about sunburn and its prose; how the language of religion informs chloe michelle howarth’s suffocating and deeply real depiction of internalised homophobia. you can read my writing on this here and here. as somebody who grew up compressed and compounded by the unflinching grip of christianity and its guilt—as someone who has worked through my fair share of pain and trauma as a result of this—i feel remarkably seen by the relentless veracity of howarth’s words and worldbuilding when it comes to the stain that religion leaves on you. her writing is empathetic and generous and gorgeously nuanced. it shows you the bones and the marrow and the meat of a body built on a fear of sin. it shows you how hard it is to unpick the existence; how much courage and cruelty often transpire in reaching this point. it does not let you come up for air. it does not let you look away.