I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.
I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still
Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.