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Why do you lie so much? And about the weirdest little things? my mother always asked me. I don’t know, I always said. But I did know. It was very simple. Because it was a better story.
never known how to be in this world without most of my soul dreaming up and living in another.
I should have felt like God. Instead I forgot that I had ever been poor. It grew so normal so quickly, that life. In my memory of this time, I sit looking bored out the window onto the most beautiful, serene stretch of the world left to look at, not even seeing it.
Wearing a string of pearls that, the first time they were clasped around my neck, felt like strangling but after a week felt like nothing at all.
You’re too crushed and obsessed about being poor to have always been poor,
Fuck you, poets. You think you are so smart, so cool with your word art. You have no idea.
what good is it to be left with no trace, to be wounded without the pleasure of a scar?
A pause so pregnant it delivers, consumes its own spawn, then grows big with child again.
