my name is Legion

and I know I frustrate God, who built me for endings / and never says anything but YOU HAD ONE JOB.

I have believed, I have not believed, I have feared God

Not that I am loosing my grip: I am just tired of summer.

Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still.

I thought of your body as one thinks of murder

I was a winged obsessive, my moonlit feathers were paper. I lived hardly at all among men and women; I spoke only to angels.

GUIL : We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.

Oh, the body—its hungers, needs, and limitations. You look at somebody and you realize that they’re in there, inside there, somewhere, and how will you ever reach them, understand them?

We give the hurt permission to use our teeth & skin like anchors. My hands were lullabies. Now they are razored fists of gospel. You shatter yourself without making a sound. No one is found guilty.

I am not as good as I believed—always falling, failing, / collapse—a spill of birds, a girl ripened with dead gardens.

GUIL : There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said—no. But somehow we missed it.

I feel like […] I have to brace myself for my own existence.