But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.

My mouth blooms like a cut.

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

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

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.