The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

Love your self's self where it lives.

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.

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

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