I started committing various suicides in my various dreams as a 1st grader. what kind of child was only allowed To keep tears and bruise to herself.. I started jumping down from agitated skyscrapers in my agitated dreams as a relentless crusader. what kind of crusader pursued virtual death with such unwavering passion and obsession.. Sometimes I pronounced my name wrong vehemently, When memories made darker demands than my own, As if I’d been mutilated by the worst maternal demon, With her beauty and love brief and violent, like that masterfully braided hair strangling around my neck, holding a defenseless hostage. Perhaps, Death was not to fear, but Love was. Tears, I can bear, but to face a wounded self, is to mourn an unlived life.