Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
I do not know who I am tonight.
I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
O heart, such disorganization!
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.