I have been waiting for you. Since before her birth, since before my spark took hold and ignited the fire in her mother’s belly, I have been training to kill you.

I want to touch you like people want to jump off Niagara Falls. The rush is worth the, “Holy fuck!”

My grandma kick the shit out of your grandma. My grandma thorough.

Alice asks me if I remember how it all began. I tell her that we were on our way to pick her up from kindergarten the day that the news broke. The day that the Sriracha factory closed.

Everyone remembers Taft as our fattest President. The teachers telling us the story of how Taft once got stuck in his own bathtub.

Your husband owns a clinic that offers to cure homosexuality for up to $10,000 a year. So when you, Representative Bachmann, refused to acknowledge the bullying of gay students in your district, this must have been strictly business.

Fat girl, fat jokes. Fat girl, skinny friends. Fat girl, stand next to fatter people to look thin. Fat girl, fat camp, five years. Fat girl lost two pounds and you didn’t notice.

Yo, I caught you trying to take my mother’s feet. You made Aunt Glenda’s arms open up in the bathroom, blood ran the floor like a point guard.

My mom holds her accent like a shotgun: with two good hands.

When my boyfriend’s mother called me to tell me that he was dead, I was standing in a CVS holding a bag of Halloween candy. For a long time, I could only write about him in metaphor. Lucky for me, the world is full of ghosts.

50 niggas in a poem. Now I’m down to 49 niggas. Pay attention to how I abuse it 48 more times.

I work with women who have crowbars for backbones.

One: The first time I learned I liked to see things burn, I was six.