The first time my town saw the sky it sucker-punched us in the throat, left us breathless, said, I'm gonna keep you awake some nights without touching you. You'll make it up, the pain, you always do.

...others, with halos shaped like rollercoasters you'd stand in line to ride twice.

But I still show up for gentleman practice in the company of lead dancers, hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.

There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

Even good hearts know how to turn bad touch and genocide into clichés just to make room for more comfort.

Hearts don't break, y'all. They bruise and get better.

Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.