I Think It Will Be A Miracle

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Now That I Have Written Many Words, And Let Out So Many Loves, For So Many, And Been Altogether What I Always Was A Woman Of Excess, Of Zeal And Greed, I Find The Effort Useless.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.