1699.

The only offer
of permanence that life holds
is that its ending.

1698.

The girl inside of
me is a stranger that I
do not want to know.

1697.

I am an island
in constant exile without
any hope's escape.

1696.

A man may make you
his religion, if only
to rob that altar.

1695.

There are a million
stories in my blood, taunting
me with their distance.

1694.

His love is a shark,
circling and hungry by the
certainty of blood.

1693.

We are a falling
house, given over to so
much tender neglect.