Rachel Ropeik

“What’s a hare-loom tomato?” BJ peered over his shoulder. “It’s when rich people think fucked-up-looking things are more special than normal stuff.”

It was the kind of day where anything felt possible. As if the charity of the world had tipped, finally, to one side of the rusted scale. The kind of day where you can fill in your scars with Magic Marker and tell yourself you’re normal—and it might be true.

Healing is what a living body directs itself to do.

“Why does everything have to be good or bad? Maybe it’s just strange luck.”