Benedict.

I asked her if she believed in love, 

and she smiled and said it was her most

elaborate method of self-harm. 

Benedict.

I wish I wrote the way I thought

I wish I wrote the way I thought

Obsessively

Incessantly

With maddening hunger

I'd write to the point of suffocation

I'd write myself into nervous breakdowns

Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing

And I'd write about you

A lot more

Than I should