" The poet can’t stand the quiet. She can’t stand the buzzing in her head. The murmur of memory. The poet picks up a book of poetry. It is not her writing but it reads the same way. It is not her story but the ending is similar enough to pass. The poet tries to read a verse out loud and only tastes blood in her mouth. The poet worries she is writing the same poem over and over. No matter what words she puts down, it comes out with a bite. "

― Trista Mateer , The Dogs I Have Kissed