A Black-sharded Lady Keeps Me In A

I Like People Too Much Or Not At All.

The Sheets Grow Heavy As A Lecher's Kiss.

But I Wasn't Sure. I Wasn't Sure At All. How Did I Know That Someday―at College, In Europe, Somewhere, Anywhere―the Bell Jar, With Its Stifling Distortions, Wouldn't Descend Again?

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.