I don't consider myself a serious and social political critic.
I was too weak to walk. At least, I thought I was too weak. But in truth, I was too weak to try.
One little ripple started today could create a typhoon fifteen years from now.
I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked the boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the story, the whole story, right there.
I didn't feel physically sick. But mentally. My mind was twisting in so many ways. (. . . ) We once saw a documentary on migraines. One of the men interviewed used to fall on his knees and bang his head against the floor, over and over during attacks. This diverted the pain from deep inside his brain, where he couldn't reach it, to a pain outside that he had control over.
I decided to find out how people at school might react if one of the students never came back.
That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.
I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.
There's all kinds of love in the world, and not all of it looks like the stuff in greeting cards.
I don't design my own clothes. It's so not what I think about.
The business of America is business.