“Shame bleeds through generation to generation. That is not the legacy I wish for you.”

You’re too powerful to be a slave of acceptance.

I refuse to be ashamed of the fact that my body does bleed each month; it is why we are all here.

You’re too powerful to be a slave of acceptance.

If you don’t set your spirit free now then when will you find your wild.

And one day I hope your path leads you to a place where you love yourself as much as I love you.

Their compliments should not define you and nor should their criticism break you.

There is a fire raging inside you; do not allow anyone to extinguish it. And so on these nights when you think you are broken, remember the flame, and feel it burn.

There is a world up ahead where people are not targeted for beliefs or bodies, where peace isn’t a fantasy but reality. Build the world you hope your children will see.

I had all of the love in the world but I could not see it. We are blind when we don’t know how to love the very bones and blood that make us.

Be the light that floods the wounds of people lost in their own darkness.

If you don’t set your spirit free now then when will you find your wild.

Missing you is the cruelest thing I could do to my heart, and maybe that’s why I do it: its easier to hurt myself than love myself.

We all have a voice. If you take a stand, you could be changing someones life.

Never allow any soul to clips your wings, you were born an ember. You were born a flame.

There is a world up ahead where people are not targeted for beliefs or bodies, where peace isn’t a fantasy but reality. Build the world you hope your children will see.

Peer into the depths of your soul and see – your magic exceeds that of the stars. Imagine you are viewing the universe you are.

In the end not every bleeding thing dies; at least, not like a paper plays in fire.

It is supposed to true that those who do not know history are condemned to repeat it. I don’t believe knowing can save us. What is constant in history is greed and foolishness and love of blood.

Terror made me cruel; and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes.

The blood of the just will be demanded of London, burnt by fire in the year ’66. The ancient Lady will fall from her high place, and many of the same sect will be killed.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

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