When People Don't Express Themselves, They Die

Used To Be That My Whole Body Was My Canvas-hot Cuts Licking My Ribs, Ladder Rungs Climbing My Arms, Thick Milkweed Stalks Shooting Up My Thighs.

I Just Want To Sleep. A Coma Would Be Nice. Or Amnesia. Anything, Just To Get Rid Of This, These Thoughts, Whispers In My Mind. Did He Rape My Head, Too?

Bologna Girl, That's Me.

I Am Learning How To Be Angry And Sad And Lonely And Joyful And Excited And Afraid And Happy.

I Won The Wintergirl Trip Over The Border Into Dangerland.