Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.
Mine is a heart of corneal, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.
I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.
I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.
I will what I will.
Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.
Don’t be like so many writers. Don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers.
Don’t be dull and boring and pretentious; don’t be consumed with self-love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind.
i just want to compliment your soul