“The uncharted territory of the western amazon is called the mother of god.”

I should now admit I once made a fake account just to talk to you once more.

It finally happened like I thought it might I run into you.

Hour 36 of labor. I pull at god’s necktie dig a hole at the hospital floor.

You can’t go to a kindergarten teacher after me.

One tornado I lived through got the house.

The argentinian kisses me on a beach in tulum.

May my children never read this.

You’re rolling me in coffee hands I’m u-turn smoked rubber coming back- oh I’m spent, ask on the still.

When I reached for what I wanted, they said I left my needs behind. But if all birds need is on the ground why then do they fly?

Oh the salt water I had to sweat to realize there was an ocean inside of me.

I found my old diary tonight. A brokenness I had forgotten pen pressured so deep it punctured page. I ran my fingers over my words and there inside ridges black I found a little girl desperate for someone to save her, desperate for the very woman I have become.

This morning I tell the kindest man on earth after two dates, you are good and you are not my man. My man is not as good as you.

I know this won’t always be a good deal for me I make it anyway.

Don’t get too used to being alone.

I want to be in an Jane Austen novel with you.

God is a woman and like every woman has millions of years of men speaking for her.

Netflix, Amazon, iTunes – whatever platforms emerge – we are looking at as having the same potential that home video had for the movie business.

Every book purchase made from Amazon is a vote for a culture without content and without contentment.