Love is a dangerous angel.

At first we raced through space, like shadows and light; her rants, my raves; her dark hair, my blonde; black dresses, white. She's a purple-black African-violet-dark butterfly and I a white moth. We were two wild ponies, Dawn and Midnight, the wind electrifying our manes and our hooves quaking the city; we were photo negatives of each other, together making the perfect image of a girl.

I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.

I want him to see the flowers in my eyes and hear the songs in my hands.

If death is your lover, you don't got to be afraid ever that he will ever leave you

I stand here waiting. To disappear or sing.

You have to make your own family, your own life.