Words were never my greatest strength/ But the arsonist's child will read them

Be a tree Get wet in sorrow’s shower and you’ll recover. From envy’s scorching sun gather strength

Smoother violence fills our hearts like charming splinters. The irony is I am the first of my women

The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves. 

I've lived as her; / I've known my mother’s plight.

How do you think I feel every time I find you hovering over the door to my classroom? Like when you’re the only passenger riding up a lift, and then it suddenly stops.

The only way they chose to do this was probably written or imprinted in our genes–a wild frenzy of carnal expressions filled their faces.

Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.

I took a lonely stroll  on the hollows of your cheeks

I heard myself speak today It made me want to Cut out my tongue.

That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.

For eons piano keys unmoved Lay silently asleep

Surveying the decorated wall now vibrantly alive with Winnie the Pooh and Harry Potter characters, Sarah allowed herself a satisfied grin.

Much like most media geared toward women, romance novels have frequently received flack for its supposed shallowness, absurdity, and flamboyancy.

But I bloom like a flower:/ Soft and strong.

For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?

How do you attempt to understand testimonies of mass public trauma?

Never in his wildest imaginations had Aniket thought that everything would come together so well. Nearly everyone he invited had come.

What happens when your desire Lies in being alive?

Lacerating the unfortified,/ Picking at the flesh for bad blood to find