Morgan Park

I want to tell her that I’m not even the shell of the person I was then, that I don’t recognize the person I see in the mirror anymore. Every single day, I feel hollow, so empty that I’m afraid a paper cut will disintegrate the very fabric of my being and I’ll dissolve into rain-puddled paper mache.

I hope she knows not everyone will hurt her, not everyone wants something from her. Not everyone will leave.

Every single day, I feel hollow, so empty that I’m afraid a paper cut will disintegrate the very fabric of my being and I’ll dissolve into rain-puddled paper mache.

phobia is of long words

epitome of glitter and sunshine

Chaz, my oldest brother

Ezra, the baby and wild child of the household

“Ah, let me consult the sacred scroll of my calendar,”