Quotes About Self

And maybe you can't know me now. Maybe I'm just blood. Whatever that's for.

Who defined me? My culture, a culture of mercy, a living codex. I am a unique culture of one, from everywhere. I am her map and her self. I am everyone in the story; I am the story.

I am the only language I can understand.

I want to go back to where I once lived, but it isn't there anymore; that one of me isn't here.

We know ourselves in the extinguishable light, but we know ourselves in another universe

I wasn't any person any more.

This is my heart, or is it yours, I move within.

But I've always been a poet, that's all, no sex or race, no age or face. Can Eternity strip me of it? That's only another word. I'm inside myself, and inside it.

I like the beauty of being restored to myself, in the pollen light

the litup soul/self I have been From time to time I can't remember

walking densely through streets hanging on to self, I've tried to be a horde but I'm a blank star, billions of those on fire.

You return here at night when you dream. A part of your waking self remains

we will never see our own bodies, existing for the eyes of others.

Have I come from another world to inhabit this body of mine?

I don't know how to be . . . an- ything but empty.

for everything I am is my mind, that never leaves me.

Don't think of yourself as a rare sacrifice, blood has no beauty

I don't remember how to speak for myself anymore

I have so many ideas! I'm so full of thought I can't remember what I look like.

Which one of us was more? He was always more.

How could we stop being us, even when we leave the jeweled cinema?

Oh but I need my lone self!

I'm not who I thought I'm not there or here

Writing a poem, I construct a magenta fan with a photolikeness, enclosed in a central oval, of a beloved relation, with her hair brown that is not to say, before her hair turned grey: it's her essential self. Someone's jealous of the attention I'm paying her in my work because he wants it all for his art which is a pure, gridded, layer of words painted in crosshatched grey monochrome brushstrokes. Your art, he seems to say to me, kisses life's ass. His art asks that his own ass be kissed.