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

Jordan tattoos the words "forgive me" in thick black letters down the inside of his arm so that when he looks at his wrist he will remember not to hate himself so much. What he keeps forgetting is that there is life after survival.

Knowing me is easy. You can still twist your hair and feel silly. Look up the word tacky and have a salad. But when we're together you pull bread apart with your fingers into bites sometimes so small I gotta remind you, Peach, it is okay to be hungry.

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.

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.

Everybody knows that smiling is for little girls, the gays and certain kinds of fish who are smiling by accident.