From sometime in 1992:
Put down your torch, Cupid.
I do not need to burn with love, your angry love such as you gave Apollo.
Put down your bow, boy.
I do not want your arrows through my heart. I have felt their sting before.
You pierce, you burn, but it is a bitter fire.
It consumes me, this rage. A rage against which I have no defense.
I am no Daphne.