“She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.”

He was all dangerous eyes and beautiful lies, but I ached. for him to lie to me some more.

Some souls were never meant to be content.

I like you here, between commas, where the only thing you can break now, is my lines.

He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.

You love so perfectly, as if you have never been told a heart can be broken.

I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.

The deepest pain I ever felt was denying my own feelings to make everyone else comfortable.

You can’t tame a girl who has her head. In the clouds and one foot out the door.

Every now and then even the sweetest souls burn it to the ground, just to remind the rest of them who exactly they are fucking with.

Pleasure or pain; I’ll take either as long as it is laced with passion.

I could lose myself in you or die blissfully, trying.

I drink to the ones that can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.

I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.

Oh my darling, you mustn’t fill up on memories alone, there is heartache and regret yet to be served.

When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.

I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.

Pain made me grow in the most unexpected places. And now I know what it feels like to be a wildflower.

Never again will I hand deliver my heart to a man holding flowers when the thorns cut me deeper than the flowers ever made me happy.

I must have flowers, always, and always.

Storms can ruin gardens, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see flowers again.

Wound to wisdom, pain to power. A seed of grief, now time to flower.

I am following Nature without being able to grasp her, I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.

Gardening was something I learned in my youth when I was unhappy. I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.

I work at my garden all the time and with love. What I need most are flowers, always. My heart is forever in Giverny.