A suicide is both a rebuke to the living and a puzzle that defies them to solve it. Like a poem, suicide is finished and refuses to answer questions as to its final cause.

I wanted to forget the past, but it refused to forget me; it waited for sleep, then cornered me.

You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves -- our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.

Truly amazing, what people can get used to, as long as there are a few compensations.

[My favorite word is] and. It is so hopeful.

This above all, to refuse to be a victim.