And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.

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.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.