I'm Sick Of My Own Romanticism!

What I Cannot Love, I Overlook. Is That Real Friendship?

I Don't Hear Your Words: Your Voice Reverberates Against My Body Like Another Kind Of Caress, Another Kind Of Penetration. I Have No Power Over Your Voice. It Comes Straight From You Into Me. I Could Stuff My Ears And It Would Find Its Way Into My Blood And Make It Rise.

No One Should Be Forced To Carry The Unfulfilled Self Of Another.

When I Don't Write, I Feel My World Shrinking. I Feel I Am In A Prison. I Feel I Lose My Fire And My Color. It Should Be A Necessity, As The Sea Needs To Heave, And I Call It Breathing.

When I Don't Write, I Feel My World Shrink. I Lose My Fire, My Color.