-feel something-

I feel too fiercely to write, even to talk. It is no good to be alone either; though one makes no noise the screaming is all there.

The amount of quiet I need does not exist in the world, from which it follows that no one ought to need so much quiet.

She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze. But strange and marvelous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was not the fragile creature one would have her seem.

What if everyone got what they wanted? What then?

I had asked him many times why he stayed, and he always said the same thing: ‘Because I love you, and I wanted to, and I knew you were in there.’ No matter how damaged I had been, he had loved me enough to still see me somewhere inside.

The pain, the beauty: equally acute, equally transfixing.

Father says / to cut the meat & release its ghosts / mother says / to trade yourself / for a girl / who thinks meat is making / a comeback. some days I shut / myself up in a drawer / eat lipstick and play dead / feed on silence and other types of flesh / sometimes I love a god / and sometimes I love flowers / I pinch my lust like a petal / I solve my hunger / by screaming into a stranger’s mouth / there is no death / as brutal as birth / the way some wild animals / eat their own children / reminds me of ritual / of knowing that a housefire / is on the other end / of this phone call / and picking up anyway /

And then what do you do? You climb into dirty sheets and your mouth tastes like vodka and someone you don’t remember kissing and you tell yourself that there’s always tomorrow but what if there wasn’t? Isn’t? How many mistakes can you make How many different types of messed up can you be Before the slate is still dirty in the morning? How many wrong numbers does it take? When does a bad day become a bad week become a bad year become this is your life, now; and today becomes tomorrow becomes the same foggy eyed smudged mirror you’re always looking into? And they ask you, they ask “What are you so afraid of?” And somehow it’s always that You can’t kill the doubt without killing yourself.

Is the soul solid, like iron? Or is it tender and breakable, like the wings of a moth in the beak of an owl?

How foolish I was to believe that we could remain friends. How foolish I was to believe that the deceit would ever end.

Them hurting you was not your fault. Yes, you placed your heart in their hands, but you never told them to drop it.

“I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word.”

The moon exists for the sad ones  and the poets.

Something had caught fire within me, a purpose had revealed itself.

I dreamt of you last night—as if I was playing the piano and you were turning the pages for me.

Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.