Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

I'm sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I'm still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.

I like people too much or not at all.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.