Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
I collect men with interesting names.
Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.