She is everything. And if she is everything, maybe that's answer enough.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

What wonderful thing didn't start out scary?

It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.

All my life I have battled the alarm clock, pummeling the snooze button over and over with mounting self-loathing until the shame is finally strong enough to lever me upright.

It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.

What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?