I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

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)

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.