The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.