Because sometimes you write your story down, even though you'd rather just scream.
Skipping this writers conference made me feel guilty enough to write a poem.
Freedom drives my life, but maybe I need to transcend it.
A house is not a home, but a bookshelf can be.
I've imagined and caught slivers of miracles. But I want a full-blown miracle.
I’m talking directly to the tiny little you who lives inside of you.
Infinity wants nothing so much as to fit its limitless rampant vastness into the littlest of spaces.
i dont want to leave my bed/where things are/ soft and edgeless / like the ocean
Purim Sameach from your friendly neighborhood sacred feminine uprising!
Valentine Shmalentine, where're my Devorah-hearts at?
