Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

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.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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

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