And I, Love, Am A Pathological Liar.

There Is A Charge For The Eyeing Of My Scars, There Is A Charge For The Hearing Of My Heart - It Really Goes. And There Is A Charge, A Very Large Charge, For A Word Or A Touch Or A Bit Of Blood Or A Piece Of My Hair Or My Clothes.

I Am Disabused Of All Faith, And See Too Clearly.

I Wish You’d Find The Exit Out Of My Head.

Sometimes I Nursed Starfish Alive In Jam Jars Of Seawater And Watched Them Grow Back Lost Arms. On This Day, This Awful Birthday Of Otherness, My Rival, Somebody Else, I Flung The Starfish Against A Stone. Let It Perish.

One Thing, I Try To Be Honest. And What Is Revealed Is Often Rather Hideously Unflattering.