It's Terribly Lonely to Be a Writer
I was born with a knife in one hand
And a wound in another.
It's awful to not be loved.
It's the worst thing in the world.
It makes you mean,
And violent,
And cruel.
I was born good,
But had grown
Progressively worse every year.
The day I died,
I didn't tell my body.
Something inside had dropped away
And nothing came in to fill the cavern.
So I ate myself,
Bite by bite,
And the tears washed me,
Wave after cowardly wave.
















