“His lips move silently, and I know what he says: the words of a poem that only two people in the world know.”

“I’m tired of wanting to respond but never knowing what face you’ll be wearing, not knowing what mean or nice words you’ll be saying, so I stay silent knowing I can’t take another round of your uncontrolled verbs, your misinterpretations of my world. So many men? Yes, I have so many men, didn’t know that this text-fighting, me on the other side crying was exclusive to just us two.”

“I hold my finger up to his lips. He flicks his eyes down to look at it."You're absolved," I tell him.He brings his eyes back up to mine. There's no fucking way he knows what that word means. That's a word I dream someone will say to me.So I put it in his language. "You're free.”

“A writer discovers what he knows as he knows it, i.e., as he makes it. No artist writes in order to objectify an “idea” already formed. It is the poem or novel or story that quite precisely tells him what he didn't know he knew: he knows, that is, only in terms of his writing. This is, of course, simply another way of saying that literary composition is not the placing of a held idea into a waiting form.”

“He's only silent because he's too thick to string two words together.”

“It's not fair. It's not fair that he lets his rage take over, that he lets it rule him. I don't know why he has to let it rule him. I don't know why he has to be two people. I don't know why he gets to be two people, and I only get to be me, the one who is here to take what he has to give, and who is here to pick pu the pieces afterward.”