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

I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.

I have been cut in two.

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.