I make love  to scandalous thoughts  in a lonely bed  at night.  And sometimes, at noon before I wash my  hair, I touch myself,  and I feel a melancholic disgust  only a narcissist  feels towards herself.

My pain was  enormous  and he never understood it. But there are things  greater than oneself. Like love, like God,  like your lover.  His hurt felt familiar,  a hurt I could live with, and I had to. It hurt to be good for him. It hurt  telling him I wanted lion's  teeth in my flesh.  It hurt not  telling him, that many  of poems were written  in tears. It hurt he understood, and hurt me anyways.  When I met him  I wasn’t half of the woman  I am today.  But I built him  an empire. I crowned him  between my legs. I made him brilliant, I wrote him collections.  It hurts him to know the truth, but God will put His hand  down my throat before  He sends me to Hell. For I hurt, I hurt, I hurt.

Life has become very dear to me, and I am very glad that I love. My life and my love are one.

You gave away everything within your table of contents, leaving him with no interest in the remainder of the book.

Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough.

“Time has passed and I have loved many women. And as they’ve held me close and asked if I will remember them, I believed in my heart that I would. But the only one I’ve never forgotten is the one who never asked … Malena”

I have grown as blind as a business-man, or else I am like a paid psychiatrist, listening and figuring. And really I would like to be like a poet and have fresh eyes & be in no hurry…

For nothing today is more precious to me and rarer than honesty.