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

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

Do you like me?” No answer. Silence bounced, fell off his tongue and sat between us and clogged my throat. It slaughtered my trust. It tore cigarettes out of my mouth. We exchanged blind words, and I did not cry, I did not beg, but blackness filled my ears, blackness lunged in my heart, and something that had been good, a sort of kindly oxygen, turned into a gas oven.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

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

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