You Are So Intense. Like A Storm.

I Wrote Poetry From The Time I Could Write. That Was The Only Way I Could Begin To Express Who I Was But The Poems Didn't Make Sense To My Teachers. They Didn't Rhyme. They Were About The Wind Sounds, The Planets' Motions, Never About Who I Was Or How I Felt. I Didn't Think I Felt Anything. I Was This Mind More Than A Body Or A Heart. My Mind Photographing The Stars, Hearing The Wind.

Once Upon A Time . . . What Time Are We Upon And Where Do I Belong?

After His Kisses And Hugs It Feels Like Without Them My Body Will Fall Apart Into Pieces.

I Dreamed Of Being A Part Of The Stories—even Terrifying One, Even Horror Stories—because At Least The Girls In Stories Were Alive Before They Died.

What Shall We Do, All Of Us? All Of Us Oassionate Girls Who Fear Crushing The Boys We Love With Our Mouths Like Caverns Of Teeth, Our Mushrooming Brains, Our Watermelon Hearts?