I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

I burn the way money burns.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.