And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

Poetry to me is prayer.

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

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