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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "she wasn't sure if it was her own voice"

She was so quiet that nobody heard her
She was never mine. I always shared her.
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
does she need to touch her own face to know?
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
I was sure it was her
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
I was pretty sure that wasn't how slasher films were supposed to end, but you won't see me complaining.
Laid down on the bed that wasn't her own
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
She always was devious in her beauty
She flies with her own wings
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
She knows no truth except her own.
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
She always confused her greys with white.
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
She has big eyes and a slightly cracked voice
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
I like the sound of my own voice
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
a shade of her own features
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by Her Own Chastity
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
On her own
I got the feeling the Fairy Council was mad at me when the president knocked over her coffee to get a better grip on my neck
Every time that I tell her that I love her, I can taste my own hypocrisy
The portion of her face she allows me to see
What the hell was she thinking?
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
I put my head down and hoped to God she wasn't looking at me
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
Another bed she does not own
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
An ocean away and here he was, seeping into her
That week with her was like drinking bubbles
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
Not her voice, but the way her voice changes,
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
she gave her heart to a falling star
She was locked in time
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
I knew she wasn't faking
The Bed Was Not My Own
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
Where was her angel all those times the sky clouded over
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
A Leela of Her Own
His ex-wife was so frigid, her clitoris was only the tip of the iceberg.
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
she had already found her party
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
I don't remember what her name was so let's call her Doris
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
Calling her number and having a male voice answer
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
I remember when it was me who made her skin flush
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
I remember when it was me who made her toilet flush
Her name was Natalie
A queen in her own sense
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
She thought about giving him her heart
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
The braille on the door was not symbollic of my own blind search for an answer. Or maybe it was.
The land of our fathers, stolen before we knew it was our own
She was steady
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
To a girl who thought she was moving away
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
When she was bad
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
She wasn't connected to the earth the way the rest of us are
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
I don't like her because she won't like me
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
serene. She sips her tea
Seems I might have stolen the blue part of her rainbow, but all I really did was make it bigger, a way bigger blue
Her Voice
I ran over an old woman with her own car
somewhere her voice in the night whispering leaves
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
The Soul selects her own Society
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
the way she wears her weary
The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
All that was left of her was a damp handkerchief
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
She Will Have Her Way
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
I set my sister up with her husband, and all I got was this great dress and a trip to Hawaii
At night, her eyes closed, she would
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
All he left her was alone
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
I don't think I was rude to her, just cold and curt
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
Despite her station, the quarry was never alone
She practices her speech
Her hair was seaweed and the Pacific wind sang
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
she lit her thumb on fire
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
She asked me to read her a poem
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
Driving without her voice
She keeps her lies everywhere
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
That was what her hunger was like: mesmerizing, directed, floating like a public secret just under the cloud cover.
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
Each month I love in her own way
there was more poetry in her shopping lists than in any of my rhymes
making certain he was touching her
Her heart's too real to not have its own beat
In my own shire, if I was sad
As I looked back, he was reveling in his own feces
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"

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