Baby, don't build a monument for me of your sadness. You wouldn't have wasted your tears when I was alive. Why make an ocean of them now when it's over? The future you dreamed is a dream. Dream something else.
Why not laugh again, and let your joy be my monument?
You fill a hungry place shaped like your darkness.
Editing fiction is like using your fingers to untangle the hair of someone you love.
Nostalgia is best cured via horse whipping.
I am protective of the gentle slope of stomach bulging like an early pregnancy, at my waist. I've earned its existence with everything I've been forced to swallow.
