Oh What A Poet I

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.

I Can't Be Satisfied With The Colossal Job Of Merely Living.

The First Time It Happened I Was Ten. It Was An Accident. The Second Time I Meant To Last It Out And Not Come Back At All. I Rocked Shut As A Seashell. They Had To Call And Call And Pick The Worms Off Me Like Sticky Pearls. Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well. I Do It So It Feels Like Hell. I Do It So It Feels Real. I Guess You Could Say I've A Call.

And I, Love, Am A Pathological Liar.