I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is "Whatever you do, don't be boring."

Death's in the good-bye.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

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.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.