I'm 25 years old. I'm an undercover reporter for the Chicago Sun Times and I've been beating my brains out trying to impress you people.
I didn’t go to prom, but sometimes my friends are so excited about how uncharacteristically cool I look for a night out that they make me pose for a picture by the door, and maybe these are the pictures I’ll show my kids?
Whittling my tree trunk of thoughts down to rough tumblr figurines and the only one worth sharing right now is
Saturday night I was driving the strip downtown and feeling mushy about the neon monster I live in when I caught the final physics of a Stratosphere jump and it looked like a spider hanging by his silk, debating the climb back up, strong and small and secretly scared.
They say love is when you can be quiet around somebody. They, the council of experienced ghosts. Do they meet in empty conference rooms? Sit in skipped seats at Starbucks, lean over to proofread our emails?
I have been so quiet that all I hear is blood. The wet mechanics of my living. I guess love is a sonar, and when there is no return, it turns inward. Here is a heart that is pumping. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
My body roars in my pillow like the ocean in a shell. They say, Shhhh. They say, This, too.