Talking about my fears to others feeds it.

How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

There was a beautiful time.

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.