“You must understand: they fear you. There is nothing scarier in their minds than a girl who knows the power of her flames.”

She is alone, and oh how brilliantly she shines.

But I was brutal and violent in a way they tell women not to be.

Did the girl choose magic, or does magic choose the girl?

Does a heart that is rotted cease to be called a heart?

I will not give up the flowers in my heart for stones just because the world is a hard place. The world is only hard because it needs more flower hearted people.

Nothing will come of forcing yourself to compete your way out of trauma.

Even the day must let go of the sun and allow the light to disappear, so the darkness can live for a while. The only way out of grief is through it.

There is no justice in the world. You have to make your own, because believe me, the cosmos that gifted you the chaos, also created you with care.

You are not his princess. You are your own queen.

Girlhood is confronting the parts of you that you think are too dark for anyone to love.

If he truly loves you, he will love you when you are an ocean breeze but also when you are a summer storm. You were not made to be loved in parts. You were meant to be loved as a whole.

What do you do when you see a love so pure, so completely unwavering other than bow to it?

Burn every memory that does not help you grow. Destruction, too, can be necessary.

There is a difference between holy and pure. Holy is also the way the anger boils inside our throats.

There is a knowing in her, she hears them say, that makes her untamable. She has known since she was a child that she is observant in a way that makes them uncomfortable.

Anxious people are resorceful, they need to know how to keep the sea of panic at bay so they do not drown.

It is one thing to touch a flame and know it is hot, but quite another to jump into that flame and be consumed by it.

Time takes life away and gives us memory, gold with flame, black with embers.

This day’s nothingness as if from spite became a flame and scorched the lips of children and poets.

Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame

I want to have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.

Who has not seen that feeling born of flame Crimson the cheek at mention of a name?

Here are lips of flame eager to be extinguished by love’s liquid sigh.

Stars ink your fingers with a lexicon of flame blazing rare knowledge.