The sweet smell
of almonds
always recalls
Christmas
morning and my mother
baking pastries
or
the crime scene,
black and white
stills, with the spills
on the carpet.
The tincture,
illuminated
and clinging
to the glass tip
suspended,
is the sky
at twilight,
that place
near the horizon
that mixes
green with blue.
It tastes like
apathy,
burns a little,
but after
you swallow
the idea
that he does not love
you enough
to kill you.
If he
cannot muster
the passion
for that,
what matters
the rest?
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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