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

Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

A woman who writes feels too much.

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.

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.