By betrayal, I mean promising to be on your side, then being on somebody else's.

When it is time to get to work, I go away completely and don't do anything except the work. And that can be 16 hours a day.

Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.

People do go back, but they don't survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities. There is much pain here. Some people think you can have your cake and eat it. The cake goes mouldy and they choke on what's left. Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to think of you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.

When a woman gives birth her waters break and she pours out the child and the child runs free.

Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.

We fear passion and laugh at too much love and those who love too much. And still we long to feel.