Poetry, after all, milks the unconscious. - Anne Sexton

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
bu you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are winging like a school girl.
You are not torn.