"Oh," I thought, "without a doubt, everything in my life is falling to pieces. Nothing that my hand grasps can my hand hold."

It must be very fragile, if a handful of berries can bring it down.

One day,
someone so close to you
will see you crack under pressure.
They'll watch you fall to pieces
on the floor
and come and sit
so close next to you
They won't pick up your pieces
They'll leave them as they are
and make you feel loved
and felt and seen,
in your puddle of mud
and mess, regardless.
They'll make you feel like
you don't have to clean anything up,
like you don't have to hide
any of these pieces away again
Because you don't
Because it's those same pieces
that make you so damn lovable.

I shudder, I see the love, I’m doomed, my heart melts again — can’t stand not to be in love, can’t stand not to be melting with real tenderness, childlike need sweetnesses, that’s what’s wrong with me.

PLEASE BELIEVE that I am falling apart. I am not speaking metaphorically; nor is this the opening gambit of some melodramatic, riddling, grubby appeal for pity. I mean quite simply that I have begun to crack all over like an old jug — that my poor body, singular, unlovely, buffeted by too much history, subjected to drainage above and drainage below, mutilated by doors, brained by spittoons, has started coming apart at the seams. In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of acceleration. I ask you only to accept (as I have accepted) that I shall eventually crumble into (approximately) six hundred and thirty million particles of anonymous, and necessarily oblivious, dust.

If Fancy's lips had been real cherries probably Dick's would have appeared deeply stained.

The world had broken; the pieces lay like shattered gold, spoil for the strongest.

"Maybe...you'll fall in love with me all over again."
"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"
"Yes. I want to ruin you."
"Good," I said. "That's what I want too."

The things you love too much perish” — After Shostakovich and Volkov, p. 78. The composer goes on: “You have to treat everything with irony, especially the things you hold dear.

This is how I would die
into the love I have for you:
As pieces of cloud
dissolve in sunlight.

Your soul has fallen to bits and pieces. Good. Rearrange them to suit yourself.

Forgive me... for my love - for ruining you with my love.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

If you don't like my peaches, don't shake my tree