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the human experience is wild because, yes, I could go to work or take a shower or make dinner, but also, on the inside churns this constant, multi-year loop of “what do my parents hurt about?” “will I ever fix my relationship to my body image?” “I have so much devotion in me and know how irresponsible it is to hand out freely.” “why do I still feel like such a child?” “nobody in charge of this world seems scared enough.” “stability is a small desire, but I don’t know if I can dream any bigger.”

“People cry, not because they’re weak. It’s because they’ve been strong for too long.”

“Be good to people for no reason.”

“The things I find most beautiful about a person are almost never physical.”

They won’t understand until you leave. The minute you walk away you’ll become ‘the best they’ve ever had.’ It’s crazy how loss triggers love.

“Notebooks achieve so much of what poetry tries to achieve, but organically—they begin and end arbitrarily, in medias res. Ready-made erasures with an offhand effortlessness, abstractions interspersed with specifics. Fragmentary profundity. No forced closures. The epiphanies fall where they may.”