I Laid My Face To The Smooth

I Suppose I'll Always Be Over-vulnerable, Slightly Paranoid.

This Is The Light Of The Mind, Cold And Planetary. The Trees Of The Mind Are Black. The Light Is Blue.

Then I Decided I Would Spend The Summer Writing A Novel. That Would Fix A Lot Of People.

There Ought, I Thought, To Be A Ritual For Being Born Twice - Patched, Retreaded And Approved For The Road.

I Wish To Cry. Yet, I Laugh, And My Lipstick Leaves A Red Stain Like A Bloody Crescent Moon On Top Of The Beer Can