“sometimes when i was at dark,,there is no light for me,,as for me do not know way to turn out,,how clueless am i till the point i really dunt knowi was heartlessi was painlessand i gain nothing for the past years,the forth coming through hatred me,,i dun even know why am i herestanding within my familythe past i gain is a shadow that i dun want to look ati was scared and startled like i was a statue of peoplelike in magenta lining of the clothesi feel nothingi feel no one knows mei feel no one understand mewhen the times i look after for allahthere is something always bargain me from searching itits like a pain i felt like no fearit was a wrap like book shelf in the cupboardthats mefinding the way to turn goodbut i do not know which path and direction”

“i am humanthe lining of mucus still bargainthe vain i fear is like a miracleordinary people would always know about their heartbut as for me,, CLUELESSnobody knows me wellnobody understands menobody would careeventhough how much i put an effort into itim helplesstill nowi didnt changedi really dontand how much my aunt would adviceits just like pouring water into the leavesi dunt want it to be,i want to accomplish as i want it to be like i always wantedbut i dun know why am i so cruel to myselfi didnt try at alli let it goto be like i dunt want it to bei wont let it goto be like i want it to be”

“As long as I'm between home and the clinic I do all right. But out in the real world, I feel like prey. I slink around and can feel people looking at me. I feel their eyes boring into me. I feel what they're thinking: Watch her, she could go off anytime. But within the walls of my farmhouse, I climb out of the protective shell, my arms slowly rise like a phoenix, and I dance, wail, fly around the room and then collapse, crying, in front of my mirrors. I start to see in the mirror what it is I really look like, instead of what I was trained from the womb to see. I do not write about it. I do not talk about it. I do not know what I am doing. But just like a baby bird, I am blinking once-sealed eyes and unfolding damp wings. I cannot articulate the past. A part of me knows it's there, lurking, just behind what I can acknowledge, but it is not within sight. And I am keeping it that way. ”

“I feel like, God expects me to be human. I feel like, God likes me just the way I am: broken and empty and bruised. I feel like, God doesn't look at me and wish that I were something else, because He likes me just this way. I feel like, God doesn't want me to close my eyes and pray for Him to make me holy or for Him to make me pure; because He made me human. I feel like, God already knows I'm human...it is I who needs to learn that.”

“I don't know how I know that, but I do. I can feel the beat of that truth inside me. Taste it bitter on my tongue.Sometimes, like now, I didn't think I want to know who I really am.”

“I feel I could kill. I feel that I might like it. And I know that this should scare me. But it doesn't. It excites me. I am in Plato's cave, watching the shadows and fraught with the desire to hunt what casts them.”