When reporters ask for the secret, you are good at hedging: hard work is a sweet way to say obsession. Pathology is prettier when masked in music.
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I was praying the only way I knew how. I was trying to build a boat, to take me through the waves of grief on your street, right up to your door.
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With my suitcases packed & the sky creased to its perfect middle, I’m the most beautiful I’ve ever been without having already left.
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I could be sharp-tongued, curious, fucked-up—what had never felt available to me. For the first time, French was no longer borrowed, but mine.
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I only noticed the color by how it happened to me; from where I stood, I was surrounded by a forest of light.
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It’s a fool who believes she can drink down the sea, sing it serene and quiet. The storm screams us all apart eventually.
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People ran to keep their bodies tame, searched for every secret before the leaving.
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How many times can you choose the thing that hurts before you can’t call it an accident anymore.
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Even from the beginning the stage never felt like home. Every second spent gazing into the faces of hundreds I wasted fazed, flaming.
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Eyes open; sunlight pressing its tired hopeful nose against the horizon.
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