There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.

I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.

It is a beautiful world for the people who get to play the fist.

That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.

Until, one day, she wasn’t.

There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.

Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. It was only in dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed.