I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

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