My skin is a topographic map of deflated constellations.
Is it the responsibility of the noose to apologize to the neck for a series of unanswered questions?
Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from writing about wild horses.
The energy behind being used and liking it is relative.
We’re all criminals at some point in our lives: habitual offenders failing to yield to our reflections in the rear view mirror.
My desires are vanilla linear.
The high wire act I witnessed as a child, where the pretty lady fell through the net and ended up looking more like a battered contortionist.
Offer intestines. Unfurl in descending order.
Even prized pigs will eventually get slaughtered.