But most of all, I want to shove my head beneath the depths of any river, to gargle on the bubbles, because I want to swallow the sky when any sun is visible through the drowning.

I was sick for four months, but it was not the kind of sick I was used to: it was a numbing contagion. Under darkened skies, I coughed up the particles of illness. I looked at the walls

But we barely make it out of his sight and into the room before Xi’s on her back with her one leg up, foot on the concrete wall, both arms out straight, hands on my chest, holding me off.

Imagine a young honeymooning couple on their way to Polynesia, the husband’s forgotten his John le Carré on the train home from work: well no matter, here’s the novelization of Sorcerer to tide him over on a fourteen-hour flight, a portable cinematic experience in prose.

When you think of birds of prey, you probably don’t think of a Shrike. Unless you’re really into birds

In terms of security, the website for Foster Care, Adoption, and Family Services wasn’t exactly armed.

It makes me want to take back everything I’ve said, unfeel what I felt.

Everyone is fucking me on the internet

We dressed as Luke and Lorelai from Gilmore Girls that year;

I'm going to get canceled for probably half this shit I'm saying.

It took her years to realize he was an oppressor. It took her one night to be rid of him.

It is a gift / to be alone in this world / together with everyone / and everything / we’ve ever loved 

It really is beautiful, he thinks, taking another puff on his joint, how music brings people together.

I looked up on the internet how to say pubic lice in Spanish and went into the pharmacy.

There is a War between Words and Things. Armies are on opposite sides of a River called Speech

June climbed down tiredly from her perch, and sat at the kitchen table, resting her hot cheek on the cold tabletop while Amos called the rest of the family down from their places of hiding. 

I don’t care about writing anymore this is stupid / I don’t care anymore about this shit / They were like umm but doesn’t this mean so much to you / I said no

Posting feels sacrificial. Like giving something away. It’s an act of vulnerability, isn’t it? Sending something personal out into the unknown, with the possibility someone might see it, relate, make contact.

While the lamb is roasting, I go to the bathroom and cut off some of my hair with the kitchen scissors.

It was the summer of 1977. Son of Sam was stalking young couples.

It’s evening already / and the vibes are so off / it isn’t even funny. 

The nurse added that she hoped she had thwarted another outbreak of STDs, unlike their nursing home competitor in town.

Days of Vagrant Youth  

We sit around drinking poison 
that’ll give half of us  
cancer  
             and the other, madness, 
mistaking ill euphoria for 
wisdom of the moment.  

We’re

The unknown boy, that uninvited new friend, showed his freckled face, sang a cumbia with us, and drank from our glass. He became light in a blink.

As my passion for tweeting grew, my grip on reality subsided.

He said his responses were never good enough for her, that she made him feel like an asshole.