I've Grown Tired Of Love

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

Jewels! Today Each Twig Is Important, Each Ring, Each Infection, Each Form Is All That The Gods Must Have Meant.

I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The House, The Dog, The Ladders, The Jewels, The Soul, The Family Tree, The Mailbox. Then I Can Sleep. Maybe.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.

Yet Love Enters My Blood Like An I.v., Dripping In Its Little White Moments.