Sentries stand guard over the dungeon of Danae where I hide from betrayal and Zeus. I once had a child - not Perseus - born to a Gorgon with Stonehenge eyes An Odyssey prepared to a foreign land, wher
Your abandonment was a whisper. Like the autumn breeze whistling through the dilapidated shack that creaks among the trees. I hear the retreating army of your footsteps. I catch glances in the periphe
But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. - from “Wanting to Die” by Anne Sexton thoughts before my second psych ward visit: People