Emma Glass’s fictional debut – a novella-cum-prose poem – packs one hell of a punch. It begins in the immediate aftermath of a sexual assault, as Peach, Glass’s teenage heroine struggles home, bruised and bleeding. She stops to vomit – “blood and grease” slip-sliding between her legs. It’s a potent opening. Its brevity and linguistic innovation are reminiscent of Megan Hunter’s The End We Start From and Max Porter’s Grief is the Thing with Feathers, but Glass’s commitment to the visceral is like nothing else I’ve read. I pride myself on my strong stomach, but parts of this made my skin crawl : “Slip the pin through the skin. Start stitching. It doesn’t sting. It does bleed. White thread turns red. Red string. Going in. Going out. I pull. Tug. Tug the pin. In. Out. Out. Out. Blackout.” Is it too much? Sometimes it felt like enforced sensory overload just for the sake of it, but Peach inhabits a strange, horror-story realm of the hyperreal, and Glass’s vision goes a long way towards portraying an experience that’s near-impossible to articulate.

• Peach by Emma Glass is published by Bloomsbury Circus (£12.99). To order a copy for £9.49 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99