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

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

A woman who writes feels too much.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.