“The darkness feels like home. And the truth is, I’m tired.  I can’t pretend like there’s light anymore.”

I know loving you has consequences. In silence from a distance and alone.

I built bridges that never once led me back to you. I just didn’t realize you were the one breaking them.

I don’t know who I am anymore. And maybe that’s okay. What if, this time I can be someone who doesn’t believe in love anymore.

The best thing we built together was our end.

Love me through your eyes and let your skin follow.

I could hear my heartbreak. And instead of screaming, I listened.

I must have been out of my mind to believe pain wouldn’t leave any scars.

Your words were cold. I felt them as they crashed through my bones.

You were never good at words. So I tried to learn silence.

This heaviness is too much for one soul.

I believe one of the most dangerous things in the world is living.

Despite the lack of colors, she was a work of art.

It is no longer skin that I wear. It is you.

My poetry breaks and cries. I think I really need to let you go this time.

The saddest song you’ll ever know is the one my heart plays for you.

You left me with nothing. But the gift to write the most beautiful sad poems.

I keep sailing on in this middle passage. I am sailing into the wind and the dark. But I am doing my best to keep my boat steady and my sails full.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Only the moon’s smile can cure the unseen scars of darkness.

From the dark depths of my soul came an intense passion for prose.

A lot of women don’t know how to love because there’s deep reasons for them not knowing how to love. And what I mean by deep reasons is deep and dark reasons.

Love is love, even if it is illicit; like light remains light even in the darkness.

I remember the stillness of the night when I met darkness for the first time.  Whispering gently in my ear “It’s time to come home”

How abstract we humans sound, when we say these are dark times. As though it isn’t in our hands that paint our times.