What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.

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