It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious.
Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long...
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
Love your self’s self where it lives.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going.
The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You’re going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.