Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

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

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.