I am what I feel and think and do.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.