Blood strange to mine, I could get ready to stay dead
I would hate my father for ever having planted me
A tall bird hunched in cold weather
Wild out of the darkness, I knew that living was terrible
The reason for living was to get ready to stay dead
Fear was invented by someone who had never had the fear
Pride, who never had the pride
Love, he called it
My aloneness had been violated
Words are no good;
Just a shape to fill the lack;
Words don’t ever fit.