Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

One night she hid the pink cotton scarf from her raincoat in the pillowcase when the nurse came around to lock up her drawers and closets for the night. In the dark she had made a loop and tried to pull it tight around her throat. But always just as the air stopped coming and she felt the rushing grow louder in her ears, her hands would slacken and let go, and she would lie there panting for breath, cursing the dumb instinct in her body that fought to go on living

Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.