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

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

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.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

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

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.