I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

I'm sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I'm still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.

Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.

The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!