And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
Need is not quite belief.