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'm ready to kill something. I'll probably only get as far as my brain cells, but I am going to kill them.

I would fall in love with you if you would beat these people out of me.

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

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.

Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.

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