The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.

I tried writing fiction as a little kid, but had a teacher humiliate me, so didn't write again until I was a senior in college.

Just because a poet said something didn’t mean it was true, only that it sounded good.

My hatred gives me strength.

I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.

A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.

That was what she really wanted. To forget so thoroughly she'd never have another memory again, the bitter so bitter you gave up the sweet.