Death Like A Lover, Caressing Him, Promising

...the Men Eyed Her With The Automatic Mix Of Curiosity, Lust, And Aesthetic Judgment They Always Gave Young Women, Subject To Object, The Way You'd Stare At An Animal. She Pretended Not To Notice. To Remind Them She Was A Person Was Too Much Effort. Objects Bore No Guilt.

Whenever She Turned Her Steep Focus To Me, I Felt The Warmth That Flowers Must Feel When They Bloom Through The Snow, Under The First Concentrated Rays Of The Sun.

Although She Was Giddy With Exhaustion, Sleep Was A Lover Who Refused To Be Touched.

What Was The Point In Such Loneliness Among People. At Least If You Were By Yourself, You Had A Good Reason To Be Lonely.

I Use My Fiction To Explore My Own Unconscious Issues. I Usually Don't Even Know What's Going On With Me Until I'm Writing.