[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.