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

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.