It (suicide) became a possibility like Maybe when I grow up, I will be dead. Life was a cake that looked good on the bakery shelf but turned to sawdust and salt when I ate it.

It was the stop that happened when you made up your mind to confess, but your mouth betrayed you in the end.

Overhead, the stars were wheeling and infinite, a complicated mobile made by giants.

Mum liked to say that some things happen for a reason, that sometimes obstacles were there to stop you from doing something stupid.

Death smells like birthday cake.

I didn't want normal until I didn't have it anymore

I am an introvert. I should get that out there now.