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—when you appear and do not answer the question that I have asked you, but courteously ask (because you are dead) if you can briefly borrow, inhabit my body, [...] I say Yes. Then you enter it like a shudder—

—Frank Bidart, excerpt of "The Second Hour of the Night", in Desire (Half-Light)

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The Rape Poems, Frances Driscoll

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- Luther Hughes, Winter, Extended.

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I’m becoming an angry person with no tolerance for anyone. I’m aware of this shift and yet have no desire to change it. If anything, I want it. It’s armor. It’s easier to be angry than to feel the pain underneath it.

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Matthew Wong, The Journey Home, 2017, oil on panel

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I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame.

— Mary Oliver, from “Blue Pastures.”

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“I am aflame. Around me, everything dies.”

— Camille Rankine, from “Self-Portrait as Allegory,” published in jubilat

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“The Sleepwalker” by Ruth Awad from We Call to the Eye & the Night: Love Poems by Writers of Arab Heritage

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David Foster Wallace | Infinite Jest | 1996

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[...] I’m so pathetically intense. I just can’t be any other way.

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath: Volume I: 1940 - 1956 — Edward Cohen, c. 11th September 1950

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“Rage, maybe rage would lift me up, make me stand, make me walk—”

— Marlon James, Black Leopard, Red Wolf

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Stig Dagerman, A Moth to a Flame (Burnt Child) (trans. Benjamin Mier-Cruz)

[Text ID: “It is not true that a burnt child dreads the fire. It is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It knows that when it goes near it, it will burn itself again. Still, it gets too close.”]

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I Will Destroy You, Nick Flynn

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Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear D,”

[Text ID: “We often speak of memory as something that lingers, that returns again and again. Maybe memory is more like a homicide, each time it returns, it’s a new memory, one that has murdered all the memories before.”]

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Pablo Neruda, Selected Poems