Be sure it's not wrapped...

Do you see how I did that? All that pain I brought up about my sister went right under the rug.

When the first billionaire exploded I was at the drive-thru with my dad.

Mom couldn’t understand why we were so interested in him, the old man who shuffled through the park, waving his metal detector over the thick summer grass, digging up hub caps and toothbrushes and

"Ryan" and "LMGTFY"

After that, I attended his streams 24/7.

The whale, halter top and pigtails, flops back onto the couch with a script.

...not enough steroids, / the wrong steroids... 

An ancient warning, handed down as northern European folklore: “Woe to that child which when kissed on the forehead tastes salty. He is bewitched and soon must die.” 

"Lint Roller," "Procrastinator," and "Haircut"

It takes falling in love, staying there...

It’s August in Manhattan when we both decide to leave. You accept a job in LA and my boyfriend packs my life in a U-Haul and drives it to our new apartment together in Pittsburgh. 

When I toss

...How to say / hello without breaking / stride...

The funeral home gave me a special calendar to keep track of the Yahrzeit until 2034, but after that I will be on my own.

Leigh Chadwick goes into the bathroom, turns off all the lights and spins around three times while chanting, Leigh Chadwick, Leigh Chadwick, Leigh Chadwick

"Sitting on Our Half of the Porch..." and "I Had a Dream Last Night..."

It is a miraculous thing, this audible sun.

o lion mane and petalled armore, / you sweet corona of twist & curl...

You meet him online. That should have been your first red flag. But you are 16 and you know everything. His name is L*, and he’s in his senior year of high school, a two-hour drive away from you. You

His voice, crisp like apple vodka, poured into the September air.

Something about a synaptic neurotransmitter. You won’t really understand. 

Fruitfly [64], [76], and [77]

But to write We thought is a fiction.
We always felt that…the moment you write this phrase, you have lied.

We lived where we were born; we pretended it was just fine.

I ask you to toss me something heavier than your name
to hold, less perishable than the peonies stolen
fresh as bruises.

My hands,
dumb with clay questions
they don’t know how
to shape, write every love song
into elegy.