My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.