We all have bullets beneath our skin we pray our lovers won't flinch at when they find.

I could never trust anyone who's well adjusted to a sick society.

Everyone’s chest is a living room wall with awkwardly placed photographs hiding fist-shaped holes.

Sometimes the break in your heart is like the hole in the flute. Sometimes it’s the place where the music comes through.

I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.

This is my body. It is no one's but mine.

Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.