Let me fly, let me see things that are hidden from other eyes.

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and get lonely, and find your own food and get wet when it rains. That's what happens when you're alive.

My life was pouring out my feet and seeping through cracks in the floor; yet still I knelt and did not move, for fear she'd let go my hands. Let me stay, I wanted to beg: Please don't make me go.

There's fire in my fingers. I burn everything I touch.

I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.

Words on the page are never prisoners of the page