back turned, you don't have to look at what you've left behind. And the first person who turned their back on you can't watch you break down and cry.

Grown up? Me? I suppose I have. Killing things, and almost killing myself, must have changed me some, after all.

He's solid. "You're fractured." He's hopeful. "You're hopeless." He's always there. "You're half there." He's faithful. "You're so not." He's giving. "You're afraid to give." He's honest. "You lie all the time." He's loving. "You don't know how to love.

Something stirred beneath my skin, some being inside I'd only suspected existed, demon or angel, I couldn't say.

Six months since we met up again we are inseparable, an intricate weave. No longer do I believe this is a temporary fling. More like total commitment. More like I have walked down the aisle, holding hands with the monster.

But Hey, Guess What Crazy means I'm not liable for my actions. So screw it, I'll go home, propped up on Prozac against distractions

I write poetry anyway and have for years and years. For me, putting fiction and poetry together is like the best of both worlds.