Last night I dreamed the librarians held hands and danced in circles and told me to put more grit in my poems.

When I get angsty, information gathering calms me down. As does putting cotton swabs in my ears.

I like certain things better than other things, and by things I mean people.

The public diction I once used seems foreign to me now, as if it is the imprint for a happiness I will never mold myself to again.

Attack my character and integrity once: Shame on you. Attack my character and integrity twice: Shame on me for allowing you do it again.

Character and integrity don’t really belong to me at all. Both are communally constructed, as are self and identity.

It’s interesting how the language of torture works its way into poetry, into everything.

There’s something vulgar about a sandwich whose bread is missing.

I am much more interested in studying people’s behaviors than being on the receiving end of those behaviors.

I fell down today and hurt myself. The fall was complicated and graceless.