“I am pretty sure the myth of meIs better than the reality.”

“Am I lonelier nowThan when my sad imaginationHad him disappear?Heart torn,Loosing tiny dropletsOf sorrowNo tape can measureNo needle can mend.”

“What was true and solid begins to slide, dissolve.Your thoughts unravel faster than a satin ribbonWhose edge hasn't been burnedUntil you sit amidst a tangle of limp, pink threads,Unable to reasonAt all.”

“Do I dare ask him for what I want,As if I knew it,Could find it on some pageIn some chapterIn some book?”

“It is strange to hear my wordsRead back to me.I don't think I wrote themTo have them ever leave the page.I think I only writeWhat happens across my brainWhen my feet are too weary To dance anymore.”

“I hover over myselfWatching.Mind and body separated,Each in controlAs though there are two puppeteersWorking the strings of my marionette self.”

“Wish my life were inside a bookSo I could turn to the ending,See if it is a love storyOr a gothic disaster.”