A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

The poems that used to entrance me in the days of Miss Violence now struck me as overdone and sickly. Alas, burthen, thine, cometh, aweary—the archaic language of unrequited love. I was irritated with such words, which rendered the unhappy lovers—I could now see—faintly ridiculous, like poor moping Miss Violence herself. Soft-edged, blurry, soggy, like a bun fallen into the water. Nothing you'd want to touch,

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

This world is not enough, but it will have to do. You can either hold on or let go.

The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.