being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
Today life opened inside me like an egg.
Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.