I didn’t feel at home in life.
A good mixture of nothing and everything is eating up my head alive.
Poetry, after all, milks the unconscious.
Surely all who are locked in boxes of different sizes should have their hands held.
You say I resemble a flower; I partly agree; My brain is governed by black petals of burnt daisies.
One thing I know about death is that it touches my psyche and mumbles in her magnificently unknown words; it floats within me and wanders through my bones every day.
The trouble is that I am crazy and the room, ah, my own room drinks me.
I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind.
He said loudly ‘I am not dying’ and I said ’for me you are.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
I’m in pain because the day is ending and somehow I am never healing.
I want to calm down, to rest, to outlive this nonsense.
Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.
Darling, the composer has stepped into fire.
It was also my violent heart that broke.
My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable.
Moon girls, where did you go?
I do have that bad habit, so female, of taking people at their word.
I seem to be a ship that is sailing out of my own life.
Alone in our place I was a guest.