Used to be that my whole body was my canvas-hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms, thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.

The best time to talk to ghosts is just before the sun comes up.

I am so sorry. I wish you knew even one tenth of one percent of how sorry I am. ...It was my fault. Can I kill myself here, or should I do it outside, so the mess on your carpet doesn't upset your mother?

Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!

I am a gluttonous, gorging failure. A waste. My body isn’t used to high-sugar carbs laced with witchcraft. It can barely cope with soup and crackers.

Do I want to die from the inside out or the outside in?

Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.