“Hour 36 of labor. I pull at god’s necktie dig a hole at the hospital floor.”

When I reached for what I wanted, they said I left my needs behind. But if all birds need is on the ground why then do they fly?

Oh the salt water I had to sweat to realize there was an ocean inside of me.

I found my old diary tonight. A brokenness I had forgotten pen pressured so deep it punctured page. I ran my fingers over my words and there inside ridges black I found a little girl desperate for someone to save her, desperate for the very woman I have become.

This morning I tell the kindest man on earth after two dates, you are good and you are not my man. My man is not as good as you.

I know this won’t always be a good deal for me I make it anyway.

Don’t get too used to being alone.

I want to be in an Jane Austen novel with you.

God is a woman and like every woman has millions of years of men speaking for her.

I keep saying over and over. I’m sorry but I have to go now you are not my person.

I play with the nativity and tell mary she looks good in that color blue.

The day my children move out is years I can count on two hands I have them half this time years I count on one.

I took the bobblehead of him off his refrigerator and kissed it.

Go fuck yourself.

Beautiful creature its time to forgive yourself you were surviving.

Everything great I’ve done I did not think to do so.

I will not believe It’s less holy to be human. I will not bow my head. I will not close my eyes to god.

I gave up before birth.

Deep in the heart of the infinite darkness, a tiny blue marble is spinning through space. Born in the splendor of God’s holy vision, and sliding away like a tear down his face.

Birth was the death of him.

I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.

I’m from Dagestan, I’m born in Dagestan, and Dagestan is a different level for people living a tough life, people living in the mountains.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

The most brilliant propagandist technique will yield no success unless one fundamental principle is borne in mind constantly – it must confine itself to a few points and repeat them over and over.

Born in poverty, he will take supreme power. He will bankrupt the country. Raising an army in the Milanese marches, he will drain Faenza and Florence of gold and people.