Love makes no mistakes.

You can call me an angry ghost when I'm gone, or laugh into my disposition. But my mom will still see me as her wide-eyed wanderer out behind the garage inventing ways to fend off dog attacks that will probably never happen.

You're not the only piece of patchwork birds can pull worms from.

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.

We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.

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

I am standing like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf hoping that one day someone will pick me to make things better.