“I write because suicide is no longer an option.”

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.

I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.

Many men on the point of an edifying death would be furious if they were suddenly restored to health.

I don’t think any person in America should die because they are too poor to live.

Live as tho death is not the inevitable end.

This is good for you. Death is a thing of beauty, and it needs to be executed in such a way that does it justice.

Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are.

How exhausting it must be to fear death, when you can simply howl at the moon.

I’ve noticed that about your people, Doctor. You find it easier to understand the death of one than the death of a million. You speak about the objective hardness of the Vulcan heart, yet how little room there seems to be in yours.

Eulogy. Praise of a person who has either the advantages of wealth and power, or the consideration to be dead.