There was something about the hot air, heavy with the smells of growth and decay, that raised my heart rate in a good way. I was breathing inside of a great forest that was breathing, too. I was alive. The childish notion that a seed might land in my lungs and a tree would grow from it comforted me as I watched Spanish moss sway from the long arms

When the house licked its lips of the last shreds of me, then perhaps, zombified, I’d be able to stumble my way out into the world I’d come from.

Where else, four beers deep, having come home after half-watching the Heat game at Flanigan’s happy hour, would you find a green anole perched on your showerhead, bobbing its head to the salsa blasting from a neighbor’s yard?

My blood fizzed and popped—this kind of offhand comment about our hometown reminded me why our friendship had faded.

For years, Mayra floated on the surface of my mind until, waterlogged, she finally sank to the bottom. Here she was again, risen from the deep, all smile and bite.

When people scoff at groups of girls and say, They all look the same, I want to ask them: Haven’t you ever wanted to transcend your flimsy body? Haven’t you wished to crack open beside someone and leak into the same pool?