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

I swallowed a hand grenade that never stops exploding.

I graduated first in my class from alibi school.

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 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?

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you.