"It was your glorious hair that made me love you."

I want to shave my head.

Keep your healing hands off my broken sentences.

The muse is exhausted
because she smiles too much.
The muse is exhausted
because she works overtime.
There's too many men and women
that feed from her breasts.
The muse is exhausted
because she has to pour the water
of inspiration as well as make art
herself and bear children.
The muse is exhausted
because linear time has been
abolished. Everything is here and
now and present tense.
The muse is exhausted
because the nights are never dark
anymore. All that neon confuses the
Night Creatures. They say that owls
and other such animals find it difficult
to sleep because our lights are
everywhere.
The muse is overexposed.
Too much light.
The muse is overloaded.
She is too busy to be reflective.
The muse is overprotected.
Not to be confused with respected.
The muse is pale and melancholic.
An European with a colonial past
and an authoritarian father.
The muse has lost her integrity.
her tricks have become common
knowledge.
The muse is anachronic.
(Error in computing time.)
The muse is psychopathic.
She takes too much and
reveals too little.
The muse is exhausted
too many bodies and not enough
soul. She's got the porno blues.

Marlene Dumas, Sweet Nothings.

If only you were hot or cold. But you are neither hot nor cold. I am going to vomit you out of my mouth.
Revelation 3:16

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.

Margaret Atwood