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

women are born twice.

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious