There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.

I want to whisper poetry into your mind and imprint love letters to your soul and dance with you in an empty white room of potential

I know it’s stupid to not own a gun yet have so many triggers, but in some other world gigantic seashells hold humans to their ears and listen to the echo of machines.

I realise there's something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they're experts at letting things go.

No rescue boat can save the touches I left bobbing in the wild ocean of your flesh, but if they cut open your heart, like the belly of a shark, dumped its contents on a table—would there be any trace of me?

Now I'm just like everybody else, and it's so funny, the way monogamy is funny, the way someone falling down in the street is funny. I entered a revolving door and emerged as a human being. When you think of me is my face electronically blurred?

There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.