Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
There was a beautiful time.
Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.