You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.

What is the real breath of a man — the breathing out or the breathing in?

I was sand, I was snow—written on, rewritten, smoothed over.

Maybe that's what love is, I thought: it's being pissed off.

But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.

We have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened. The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless. I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.