Why do you write, pretty girl?
I think that's quite fitting for this.
What gave you such power with words?
Because I lived in a house of paper.
The sound always bled through the walls.
What made you pick up a pen, pretty thing?
It was closer to me than the knife.
I wanted to show him that he couldn't talk to her like that.
Where are your characters born?
(He thinks female authors are bores).
On the liquor-stained motel floor.
How can you use such strong words, young lady?
Why, that was all that I ever heard!
You mean to tell me that those weren't words of love?
weren't the matrimonial words of lore?
Why are your poems so miserably sad?
You're telling me that's not life?
That there's love in this world for a wife?
and that this kind of sharp is abnormal?
Why don't you want to get married, my queen?
Why do you reach for your pen now, sweet thing?
Because you seem, Sir, to miss the fat point.
Let me write you the truth as I've seen it, Mister.
The fire, the burn, and the blister.
Let me show you what lived with me in my house of cards.
The virgins, the slaves, and the bards.
Without the touch of a hand.
And she's forgotten what love looks like.
Those were the blades thrown at mother.