She’s a percipient mind– brilliant, ravenous, twisted, and just; I’ve watched its Furies disassemble a facsimile offered, stripping the carcass of even its marrow, its falsities discarded, leaving only my huddled madness, which had always been.

When this was written, it wasn’t entirely true– the biggest part of who I am still not fully understood, while the short prose suggests a complete understanding. Poetry is like that; half a story. Still, more of me had been known than had been dared by any other, and there are always more poems.

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