As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

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

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.

being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.