She wrote him stories and he told her not to publish them.

DIY Girl turns shit into sugar, men into murderers. DIY Girl is a melted qt-colored crayon

Snow misted, or so I remember
I was awake, but only partly
Somewhere beyond dreams
In my space between nightmares
Laying in the dark
And lying that things were still light
Outside, the city sat

Art is, to me, a balance between what you say and what you don’t. What you let a stranger’s imagination fill in.

She thought of writing as not just a plea to be seen but a plea to be loved.

standing around in my underwear
in the kitchen Christmas Eve

Last week I arrived in Montreal with no particular address in mind.

It was August 26th and my lease started September 1st. A more intelligent being would point out that there may be a problem with

I. xaxaxaxa
I don’t consider myself esoteric or mystical, but while tidying my desk I found a little square
sticker with just the number 8 on it; I think it fell off the new t-shirt I was

gargoyles
and sorries

See, I’m too stupid to write a poem. 
Remember when I said this, that afternoon by the lake 
in our purple & yellow short shorts,

At last, I texted him the truth: I have bipolar disorder. I’m in a hypomanic episode. I’m really not feeling well, I can’t stop crying. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry...

Revelers in various stages of undress, semi-dress, drag and fetishistic extravagance frolicked, tripping out on the music and their collective naughtiness.

I had no doubt my husband’s depression was the authentic article, just as I had no doubt that he used this depression irresponsibly, as leverage, a venal tactic, to flatter himself and defuse criticism and basically get every last fucking thing he wanted.

She underlined the quote, “Anything can happen in life, especially nothing.”

It’s impressive, I thought, to meet a person like this, but then if you make an effort to face the world then this is just the kind of thing that happens to you. I wondered if my clever friend was thinking the same.

Among the crowd at Washington Square, a young man holds aloft a slice of cardboard scrawled with permanent marker. It reads simply: I EAT ASS.

I recently started my third year of university. In my first year, I lived in the dorms and got acquainted with the people who just so happened to be experiencing their Firsts at the same

​I gave him two months of my fingernails and toenails in a purple mesh sachet that formerly held a bar of scented soap. He had never said anything about toenails, but it seemed like the sort of thing he would appreciate. And he did.

The memories form a bridge, but the boards are loose. If I step in the wrong place, my ankle twists. I fall. And then everything comes crashing down.

Drew once wrote a poem about bridges. He gave

A unneutered preteen breeze / loiters around the trees / this morning.