It's Important To Tell Your Story. It's

You Were Just A Boy On A Bed In A Room, Like A Kaleidoscope Is A Tube Full Of Bits Of Broken Glass. But The Way I Saw You Was Pieces Refracting The Light, Shifting Into An Infinite Universe Of Flowers And Rainbows And Insects And Planets, Magical Dividing Cells, Pictures No One Else Knew.

I Will Not Eat Cakes Or Cookies Or Food. I Will Be Thin, Thin, Pure. I Will Be Pure And Empty. Weight Dropping Off. Ninety-nine... Ninety-five... Ninety-two... Ninety. Just One More To Eighty-nine. Where Does It Go? Where In The Universe Does It Go?

I Dreamed You Were Standing In This Dark Place And You Touched These Dead Flowers And They Lit Up Like They Were Electric Or Something. Electric Lilies. Lighting Up The Valley.

If Los Angeles Is A Woman Reclining Billboard Model With Collagen-puffed Lips And Silicone-inflated Breasts, A Woman In A Magenta Convertible With Heart-shaped Sunglasses And Cotton Candy Hair; If Los Angeles Is This Woman, Then The San Fernando Valley Is Her Teenybopper Sister. The Teenybopper Sister Snaps Bug Stretchy Pink Bubbles Over Her Tongue And Checks Her Lipgloss In The Rearview Mirror, . . . Teeny Plays The Radio Too Loud And Bites Her Nails, Wondering If The Glitter Polish Will Poison Her.

Our Stories Can Set Us Free. When We Set Them Free.