You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
A woman who writes feels too much.
The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.