Maybe Her Own Tears Were The Poison

Dear Angel Juan, You Used To Guard My Sleep Like A Panther Biting Back My Pain With The Edge Of Your Teeth. You Carried Me Into The Dark Dream Jungle, Loping Past The Hungry Vines, Crossing The Shiny Fish-scale River. We Left My Tears Behind In A Chiming Silver Pool. We Left My Sorrow In The Muddy Hollows. When I Woke Up You Were Next To Me, Damp And Matted, Your Eyes Hazy, Trying To Remember The Way I Clung To You, How Far Down We Went. Was The Journey Too Far, Angel Juan? Did We Go Too Far?

Maybe Her Own Tears Were The Poison That Made Her Grow.

Sometimes A Wild Horse Needs To Feel That His Rider Is Just A Little Bit Wilder.

That Was When I Cut My Arms With A Razor Blade As A Means Of Creative Expression. I Only Did It Lightly, Just Grazing The Skin, To See The Way The Blood Would Bleed Out, To Make Myself Look Tougher. Not Like Some Of Those Kids Who Keep Going Deeper And Deeper, Wondering What They Look Like Down To The Bone, Because It's A World That's So Close And Yet So Far And So Dangerous And So Much Their Own. The Only World That Is Their Own.

It Was Always A Relief When She Came Home To Him. Like Water Or Food. Like Music Or That Moment When You Cut Yourself With A Knife And Squeeze The Skin And No Blood Oozes Out.