A woman who writes feels too much.
She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.