Needle and thread flesh and bone Spit and sinew, heartbreak is home. Your suture lines, they sparkle like diamonds Bright stars to light my confinement "Stitch.

I like French fries," I say. I like French fries? I sound like a slow child in a made-for-TV movie.

I don't really care. I shouldn't have to care. I shouldn't have to work this hard. I realize now that dying is easy. Living is hard.

It doesn't rain every day. Just every other day.

Because I understand all the ways of trying to escape, how sometimes you escape one prison only to find you've built yourself a different one.

A thousand suns rise from my chest.

(P)eople’s good intentions can wind up putting us in boxes as confining as coffins.