My verses are saccharine
Petal-drunk and too sweet to stomach
Powdered with penance yet they scab
       into their own red wound

Precious in the puddled hands
       of syrupy, gossipy girls —
       My adjectives are exquisite pearls strung tightly together
       My moon-spun madness
             only a homespun malady
             honeyed with poesy
             and born under an unlucky star

I find pleasure in the existence of an individuality
Dampened with desire yet unsoiled by sexuality
The dilution of identity into an aesthetic ideal
Attentive to beauty above all else