It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.

Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed. Love is a payment that comes due.

And I thought, there was no God, there was only what you wanted.

like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.

They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

I felt beautiful but also interrupted. I wasn't used to being so complicated.

This involves more than I can discuss here, but do it. Read the writers of great prose dialogue-people like Robert Stone and Joan Didion. Compression, saying as little as possible, making everything carry much more than is actually said. Conflict. Dialogue as part of an ongoing world, not just voices in a dark room. Never say the obvious. Skip the meet and greet.