Death Is My Lover And He Wants

I Dread The Loss Of Her I've Never Touched Love Keeps Me A Slave In A Cage Of Tears I Gnaw My Tongue With Which To Her I Can Never Speak I Miss A Woman Who Was Never Born I Kiss A Woman Across The Years That Say We Shall Never Meet Everything Passes Everything Perishes Everything Palls My Thought Walks Away With A Killing Smile Leaving Discordant Anxiety Which Roars In My Soul No Hope No Hope No Hope No Hope No Hope No Hope No Hope

She's Talking About Herself In The Third Person Because The Idea Of Being Who She Is, Of Acknowledging That She Is Herself, Is More Than Her Pride Can Take.

Your Hair Is An Act Of God.

A Small Girl Became Increasingly Paralysed By Her Parents' Frequently Violent Rows. Sometimes She Would Spend Hours Standing Completely Still In The Toilet, Simply Because That Was Where She Happened To Be When The Fight Began. Finally, In Moments Of Calm, She Would Take Bottles Of Milk From The Fridge Or Doorstep And Leave Them In Places Where She May Later Become Trapped. Her Parents Were Unable To Understand Why They Found Bottles Of Sour Milk In Every Room In The House.

Have You Made Any Plans? Take An Overdose, Slash My Wrists Then Hang Myself. All Those Things Together? It Couldn't Possibly Be Misconstrued As A Cry For Help.