“Are you native to the land you are spilling blood on?”

Its okay if all you did this year was survive.

Self Love is just me loving you in reverse.

The last person I adored made me cry and then tenderly wiped the tears off my face. It was the only lesson that taught me; you can love someone and still do horrible, cruel things to them.

We romanticize trauma so much that we have stopped trying to prevent it and started smiling at all the scars it leaves.

Healing can look a lot like violence.

Can we just pretend we are wanted?

It is terrifying to wonder whether that person you love is a walking red flag or a white flag of surrender dipped in your own blood.

I am tired of only being loved in theory.

Her body is a undiscovered country and she is afraid that someone will colonize it and expect her to thank them for the wreckage.

You are something I am trying to love; Not something I am trying to survive.

When will I realize the absence of hate is not love?

I tell the boy in my class that no means no and he laughs in my face – says no means change my mind.

Loving you and leaving you taste the same in the mouth?

Women like me bleed on command.

This body belongs to all those who live in it.

The only difference between a mother and her daughter is how long they’ve lived with the trauma.

Tear me apart cut open my flesh, until I bleed out just like the rest of the mess.

I release my handsfree the reins, as the blood diminishes through my empty veins; allowing life to flow as I go into the light that’s resided in my soul.

People are bloody ignorant apes.

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.