And I'm so glad you are doing better.

And someday I will
see you there.
And you will know me,
by my head held high,
and on my arm
the scarlet letter,
that I will wear.

The Sun Also Rises.

Today, sweet today,
I began again.

Blown out candles.

Today, I am thirty and seven years.

I have made, and drunk, cups of espresso,
eating the chocolate left on my front step
by a sweet friend.

I stood under scalding water until God in my
ear said, let's go, Buddy.

I mount my bicycle. The sun says hi.

The weather report said cloudy, cold: it was not.
God, for my favorite present, gave me sunshine.
My sister stayed at my side the whole day.

Friends called and talked for hours.
The piano open. Guitar.

Whiskey poured into me.

Beautiful girls gave me scarves,
flowers. Hugs and dancing.
Whiskeys.

Dancing.
Dancing.

Bike home to warm cats.
Kisses.

Birthday, thank you.

The healing things.

I've begun to eat again,
and to paint, and draw,
and write songs.
Dance.

On the mend.

They learn to fly.

Now that I've transformed myself,
into a baby bird: perhaps,
it is time, to stop.

My shoulder, God.

Beside me,
Remind me,
That I'll be,
Okay.

Survival.

How I move on.

Beholder.

Sometimes, like now, when I feel like my emotions
are unbearable, I stop eating. Or rather, I eat in
tiny, rigidly enforced taste portions.

Like, a spoonful of cold beans every two hours.
In between I drink apple cider vinegar, lots
of tea, and an occasional beer.
Or beers.

I lose rapid wait, and my short term memory
begins to fail, immediately.
So, thusly, I feel like, well, win-win.

I can't remember what is causing me such
fucking heartache. And as I lay in bed at
night, starving, I run my hands over my
ribs, and feel beautiful.