One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

I have been cut in two.

Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.