Strangeness is what's still keeping me alive
And making me happy.

When we read
We live a thousand lives;
When we write,
  We relive our own.

A zip runs from my forehead to my bellybutton

Pull it down
step out
fresh and new and clean

"you ruined me," I say at the sobbing sick-stained fat
thrown on the bathroom floor

For all She's done
you still can't see Her beauty.

the angel on my shoulder
picked up smoking,
the devil on the other
took up yoga—

they don't know
how much they have
in common.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

when you stay
because you are afraid of losing what you had
you do not lose
the past
you lose
the future.

be brave.