The Truth Is I Have Had, For

My Thoughts Are Messy, My Emotions Are Messy, My Body Goes In And Out At Will. The Raised White Scars On My Arms And Legs Are The Only Aspect Of My Being That Comes Close To Minimalism. They Came From Chaos, But It Is Hard To Carve Frustration And Unease Into The Flesh. Only Straight Lines.

It's All In Her Walk, A Cartoon Swagger. Part Jayne Mansfield, Part Muhammad Ali. Men Never Know If It's An Invitation Upstairs Or An Invitation Outside.

Everyone Asks About How I'll Feel About The Tattoos And Scars In Thirty Years. I Always Say: "i'll Like Them." I've Always Loved Damaged Monuments, In Architecture And In Humans.

I Think A Neurotic Learns From Their Mistakes. A Psychotic Does Not.

He Was A Super Shiny Boy And I Liked The Shape Of Him. Under The Blanket. In The Shower. I Liked His Shadow On The Street And His Imprint On The Sofa. I Hated The Smell Of Hair Gel On His Head, But I Loved It On The Pillow. I Love The Smell Of Losing Someone.