You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Poetry to me is prayer.
The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.