And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.