Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
A woman who writes feels too much.
All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.