I crave white on white and black, but my thoughts race in glorious technicolour, prodding me awake, whipping away the warm blanket of invisibility every time it sears to smother my mind in nothing.

Of course I loved you, you saved my life. I wish you hadn’t I wish you hadn’t I wish you’d left me alone.

She's talking about herself in the third person because the idea of being who she is, of acknowledging that she is herself, is more than her pride can take.

I feel like I’m eighty years old. I’m tired of life and my mind wants to die.

Have you made any plans? Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself. All those things together? It couldn't possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help.

Your hair is an act of God.

No one survives life.