They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

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

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.