A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

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

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.

I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem, when I'm writing one. Having written one, then you fall away very rapidly from having been a poet to becoming a sort of poet in rest, which isn't the same thing at all. But I think the actual experience of writing a poem is a magnificent one.

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

Talking about my fears to others feeds it.