I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.

women are born twice.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

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