I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

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

But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: "I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.