Life is short, though I keep this from my
children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened
mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised
ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised
ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world
is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a
conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my
children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a
bird.
For every loved child, a child broken,
bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the
world
is at least half terrible, and for every
kind
stranger, there is one who would break
you,
though I keep this from my children. I am
trying
to sell them the world. Any decent
realtor,
walking you through a real s.hithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be
beautiful,
right? You could make this place
beautiful.
