“I dream about the body I wish I had and all the ways I could be touched in it.”

All my friends tell me I need to pull through. But I can’t for I am lost in the sea of you.

I get so lost in your midnight eyes I forget we’re running out of time.

Lost in the space between friend and lover. I am and none of these things.

Your presence is poetic, mysterious and deep. If you don’t mind I’d like to read you; uncover the dirty secrets hidden within your pages and fill that missing space between your sheets.

I long for connection but speak only with your reflection.

I was on fire. You didn’t even hesitate stepping into the flames. After tonight I am certain all the neighbors know your name.

You want to taste my ruby lips but fear they’ll leave a mark. Loving you is trespassing, forbidden access to an insecure heart.

You are the thunderstorm warning and I’m dancing in acid rain.

The night is wine and we’re the stars.

How can I be soft when tough love is all I ever known?

I’ve got the midnight blues in the middle of the afternoon – the side effects of missing you.

If love is rain ours is always pouring.

Everyone chases fairytales and magic until love becomes an illusion.

If this love is going to break me, at least make my suffering sweet. I want to know what you taste like in sweltering summer heat.

If there’s still hope for the hopeless, there must be hope for us.

I imagine myself cold as ice falling into your open arms. Everyone says it’s beautiful where I am but I’d rather be where you are.

Other women’s bodies are not our battle grounds.

I’ll put an end to the idea that a woman’s body belongs to her. Nazi ideals demand that the practice of abortion shall be exterminated with a strong hand.

Picking five favorite books is like picking the five body parts you’d most like not to lose.

The soul is the effect and instrument of a political anatomy; the soul is the prison of the body.

Feeling, the strength of the roots beneath my body I stand here planted in the soil of all that came before me and all that will follow.

Bodies are real entities. Surfaces and lines are but fictitious entities. A surface without depth, a line without thickness, was never seen by any man; no; nor can any conception be seriously formed of its existence.

If only were my skin like art shining against the mould, if only my body were a canvas brave if only.

When will the leaves begin to change in this body of mine?