Baby, don’t build a monument for me of your sadness. You wouldn’t have wasted your tears when I was alive. Why make an ocean of them now when it’s over? The future you dreamed is...

Editing fiction is like using your fingers to untangle the hair of someone you love.

You fill a hungry place shaped like your darkness.

Why not laugh again, and let your joy be my monument?

Nostalgia is best cured via horse whipping.

I am protective of the gentle slope of stomach bulging like an early pregnancy, at my waist. I’ve earned its existence with everything I’ve been forced to swallow.