the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.

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.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

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