Clip the hair from the back of my neck, my neck. I know your small fingers won’t lull anything to sleep. I know they’ll prick

“Which floor?” the man asks me. This is the first time that anyone has spoken to me in the elevator, which is cold and dimly

You say evil is such an old word but with the same haste it asserts itself in the scurrying selfishness of my room, and in

There are gaps in the papyrus And your skin is like papyrus The kind that was kissed once a while ago A friend asked me

Clouds are fluffy trampoline-like pillows. Trees only grow when it’s dark outside. Our toys talk to each other in our absence. I will never stop

I had to change all my passwords—my wallpaper and screensaver, too Every month on the 15th I sent you a text telling you how lucky

This story starts, as the summer started, with a sense of possibility. It was my first summer in New York since I turned 21. It

Sally sells seashells by the seashore. The shells she sells she writes about for her college applications. “You can’t write about that!” her mom yells

I. Bedrock Shiny stone promises uncloaked themselves. I wish my armor were more like duck feathers and less like clay. We were each other’s paperweights

They didn’t have crabapple trees in the city. At least, there were no crabapple trees to be seen in the five block walk between home

First memory: Watching white sunburned airplanes kiss the sky as their contrails disappear behind them. Thinking America is a heaven amid snow clouds and drops

Start:   Fake hardwood and matching gold teeth. You lived across from the Oakdale Discotheque. You were rippin capsules, Your brain was wet, You knew