Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
Love your self's self where it lives.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
In a dream you are never eighty.