But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit- An effect, a cosmetic. You smile. No, it is not fatal.
O love, how did you get here?
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
How many different deaths I can die?
Masks are the order of the day - and the least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not hollow and afraid.