Attend me, hold me in your muscular flowering arms, protect me from throwing any part of myself away.
what you hear in my voice is fury, not suffering. Anger, not moral authority
Somedays, if bitterness were a whetstone, I could be sharp as grief.
Out of my flesh that hungers and my mouth that knows comes the shape I am seeking for reason.
Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge.
For those of us who write, it is necessary to scrutinize not only the truth of what we speak, but the truth of that language by which we speak it.