For she is my love, and other women are but big bodies of flame.
Just because a poet said something didn’t mean it was true, only that it sounded good.
without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
I hated labels anyway. People didn't fit in slots--prostitute, housewife, saint--like sorting the mail. We were so mutable, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water.
They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one's capacity to endure it.