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.

Pretend – inside your skin – you've got a friend, who's willing to give you everything you ever wanted in exchange for all you've ever been.

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.

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

How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?

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

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