I try to reason with myself; I say my anxiety is unnecessary, and I believe it. I say if I were smart I wouldn’t waste my time worrying about anything that could not do me good. I am my own person; it’s obvious that love does not thrive on the self’s isolation, but neither on its obliteration. It is not one; it’s two. It is not two; it’s one. I try to reason with myself; I say I love her and I am the one who does the loving. I say if I were smart I’d write a poem about identity instead of trying to pretend that I could figure this one out.
23 February 1983, San Diego