Sometimes I wish you’d eaten me in the womb. Those were the days: you and me, cell clumps swaddled in the darkness, learning to suckle at the meat that made us.

If I did this to myself, could you ever forgive me?

I brought my cane that day, even though I could’ve walked unassisted. I expected to be given fifteen minutes, tops. I was terrified.

suppose they gave roses for suffering well: suppose it was better the less they could tell.

Remember when you saw your first princess? Her skirts were tulle and glittered like the night sky. They fell about her feet so you’d never know she was walking — she was gliding, floating.

In friend circles I tend to refer to it as the "I'm Tired" disease, not because that really captures the half of it, but because it makes up 90% of my responses when my partner asks how I am.