Free-Fallin

The problem with loving a writer Is the constant worrisome requirement To decipher art From illness.

Sweet and sensual, The feel of your fingers on my skin. Slow and longing, The trail of your hands on my curves. Languid and helpless, The pulsing of my veins under your masterful strokes. My love for you is like my love for apples. Juicy, crunchy, delicious... And as dark as a sinner's heart.

a twenty-seventh nightmare is swelling up in my lungs - oh, plath & i are pecking at sarcophagi; we're burning self-destruction into crematory skeletons & making matches from the voices that used to be our madness.