“A thing cannot exist without its opposite,” he told her As he lit two flames and absentmindedly pressed them together Her heart reached beyond her chest to kiss his And the lump he’d found in her breast

When you step into this building or sit in this chair or walk through this hallway, you will begin to let your chains go. Your mind will expand and new questions will begin to arise in your head. New bridges

Run me under your fingers You’ll see that I am dust I am clay Just as old men say I am the dirt beneath your nails The stubborn, sticky kind That hides in the corners Clinging to your warmth You are stubborn

A writer? You’re not actually serious, are you? What a joke! You can’t want to be that Where’s your sense of practicality? Honestly, honey, be realistic When are you going to stop living In that fantasy

She paints her canvas With the blood that fills her wounds And calls it Poetry

Who am I? My god, fuck if I know. Life, with all her whims, weaves me together and unravels me as I go. I rediscover and reinvent myself from one dawn to the next. I die as I fall into sleep and never