But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

Need is not quite belief.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.