Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

Opinions are like orgasms...mine matters most and I really don't care if you have one.

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

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