I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.

There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

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

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ