“He was exactly like hitting a red light during a killer streak of green.”

Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.

There is no greater power than that of the sun, the moon, and a woman who knows her worth.

I have God in my words and the devil in my ear, and a sister who keeps telling me to find my magic.

You load your words as I bare my chest, and this will be the most beautiful death.

Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.

I have known love and I have known loss, but in the end, they both looked a lot like you.

I write because suicide is no longer an option.

Too many times I have given this heart away, I am afraid it is no longer mine.

I think I saw you again in the moonlight tonight, and I swear I could taste the hints of it alll.

On paper I have killed you a thousand times but my heart disregards clever words.

He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.

How recklessly we turn from strangers and blindly back to lovers, to nothing.

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.

I don’t think the world is ever getting better; I guess maybe people just find new ways to hide what kills them.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

She said that these were things all women knew yet seldom spoke of. Lastly she said that if women were drawn to rash men it was only that in their secret hearts they knew that a man who would not kill for them was of no use at all.

Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.

He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

If you kill me, I promise you – you will never take me alive.

As a reader I loathe introductions…Introductions inhibit pleasure, they kill the joy of anticipation, they frustrate curiosity.

He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive.