For She Is My Love, And Other

Oleander Time, She Said. Lovers Who Kill Each Other Now Will Blame It On The Wind.

Women Always Put Men First. That's How Everything Got So Screwed Up.

If Sinners Where So Unhappy, Why Would They Prefer Their Suffering? But Now I Knew Why. Without My Wounds, Who Was I?

Love Could Never Bloom In A Concrete Block Room.

In A Perverse Way, I Was Glad For The Stitches, Glad It Would Show, That There Would Be Scars. What Was The Point In Just Being Hurt On The Inside? It Should Bloody Well Show.