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.

You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.

We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You go ahead, call 9-1-1. Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

I don't care to be good, Sheriff. I care to be whole.

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

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