Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.
Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God.
Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
Masks are the order of the day – and the least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not hollow and afraid.
A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.
I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
Not easy to state the change you made. If I’m alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
And so I rehabilitate myself – staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction – than to lose it in slumber.
Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.