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

We were electric together, you and me; we turned hurting each other into a goddamned symphony.

You can fan the flames with hate or stroke the fire with love, either way, it’s going to burn.

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

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul again. But in all that is right or wrong and pure, there is you, and your stunning ability to blur the lines and just be.

I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.

I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.

Moon child with your galaxy heart, cool your heels and stay awhile.

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

Be bold, child. You are rare and you are brazen light.

She is love, and a little fucking unstoppable.

And now I wander. Forever searching for the pieces of me I should have never given away.

Every now and then I roam the catacombs in my head and attempt to resurrect you, and make you shiny again.

Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.

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

I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.

I am world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.

Church attendance is as vital to a disciple as a transfusion of rich, healthy blood to a sick man.

All will be raised by the power of God, having spirit in their bodies, and not blood.

Well, it gives, certainly to my father, who is the one that suffered the most in our family, and understanding of how the ideals of a country are only as good as the people who give it flesh and blood.

I can’t un-feel the trauma – it’s in my blood.

Concerning the harsh treatment of the body for our Lord’s sake, I would say, avoid anything that would cause the shedding even of a drop of blood.

The chef that grew up with the grandma who cooks tends to always beat the chef that went to the culinary institute. It’s in the blood.

It’s the blood of the ancients that runs through the veins.

BLOOD, SWEAT & RESPECT. First two you GIVE. Last one you EARN.