I Love Sylvia Plath And Anne Sexton.

But Be Careful; Sand Is Already Broken But Glass Breaks. The Shoes Are For Dancing, Not Running Away.

If Death Is Your Lover, You Don't Got To Be Afraid Ever That He Will Ever Leave You

At First We Raced Through Space, Like Shadows And Light; Her Rants, My Raves; Her Dark Hair, My Blonde; Black Dresses, White. She's A Purple-black African-violet-dark Butterfly And I A White Moth. We Were Two Wild Ponies, Dawn And Midnight, The Wind Electrifying Our Manes And Our Hooves Quaking The City; We Were Photo Negatives Of Each Other, Together Making The Perfect Image Of A Girl.

Maybe Her Own Tears Were The Poison That Made Her Grow.

Sometimes She Wore Levi's With White-suede Fringe Sewn Down The Legs And A Feathered Indian Headdress, Sometimes Old Fifties' Taffeta Dresses Covered With Poetry Written In Glitter, Or Dresses Made Of Kids' Sheets Printed With Pink Piglets Or Disney Characters.