Because whether it’s a bean smear inside of a tortilla or a meaty one in the middle of the road, it makes no difference in the end.

He’s crept inside and sewn himself into the fibers. One by one, each and every stitch is his, is his...

It belonged to the English—this cuke that had spent a month in the back of my fridge, slowly each day becoming a more liquid version of itself...

Amongst the Earthen empire with all that is wild and free...

So I went to the garage and found a rope. And I jumped. Because that’s what seven-year-olds do...

Horrors that stand over your bed and watch you dream, that will kiss your mouth and bed with you, whittling nightmares. In the morning you will remember none of it...

The other birds feast on the bounty beneath the soil, as the lone robin stands on its own—awaiting her arrival...

Its tiny head twisting, its body shuddering in delight as it performs a proper cleaning...

Leave me for the shadows, The black ones that granted company until the end. It would be a waste to rob them this offering...

I’ll chase after you under the sun. I’ll tackle you in the grass and we’ll roll around laughing. I’ll bring your favorite treats, we’ll go hiking in the hills, just you and me. When I’m fun...

I’ll keep strumming and never reach the end. You’ll see my fingers bleed—the blood sliding down the strings and dripping teardrops from my fingertips...

There may have been light in the darkness—if the lightbulb hadn’t fried up years ago...