I Was My Own Woman. The Next

And I Identify Too Closely With My Reading, With My Writing.

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

Piece By Piece, I Fed My Wardrobe To The Night Wind, And Flutteringly, Like A Loved One’s Ashes, The Gray Scraps Were Ferried Off, To Settle Here, There, Exactly Where I Would Never Know, In The Dark Heart Of New York.

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

I'm Doped And Thick From My Last Sleeping Pill.