Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

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

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

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

All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.

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