“You can strive to be perfect. Or you can strive to be art.”

And I return home always. Because love’s call has always been stronger than the moon’s.

Love yourself loudly, dangerously, everywhere people have been afraid to love you, afraid to ask the way to cherish you, afraid to hold you. Love yourself most in these places, because who can be a better teacher to others in how to love you than yourself.

The bird building her home on your windowsill has every nest destroyed before. The spider that is delicately weaving a masterpiece has had every single thread broken before. And despite it all, they try again.

Girls who survive trauma do wear a certain vulnerability around them, but this kind of vulnerability is from where their greatest strength stems.

Forgive her for how her agony reveals itself, child. This is how blood magic works. Unconditional never meant perfect anyway.

Perfection in imperfection. Someone whose flaws work well with yours.

You have belonged better in your own arms than in anyone else’s. Remember you are the softest love you will ever have.

You need not fear the wolves you hide in your soul. They were made not to hurt you, but to protect you against this world.

Become fluent in the language of letting go. Learn to give people up before they hurt you beyond repair.

She didn’t just wait for someone to come and rescue her from her discontent and strife, instead she took matters into her own hands and empowered her own future, her own life.

There is an art in the emptiness of all natural things.

Maybe magic ends with me and it will never cross your path, but I want you to remember that survival is an art. The world is falsehood so you rely on your smarts.

I’d like to think our love does return to us reincarnated in different human forms. That people might be temporary, but love is permanent and it just changes form.

There is a spell for almost anything and if there’s not a spell, there is at least a poem.

When I set out to find my father, I was not being brave. I was acting out of fear or losing the only parent I ever had. They may want you to believe I was simple being brave, but anxiety makes more heroes than history would care to repeat.

Because girls who were building empires for themselves did not need kingdoms to shine.

A soft lover and a wild wanderer.

When I’m sad, she comes to me with a thousand smiles.

Life’s a game made for everyone, and love is the prize.

Every drop of her gin held a lost world of night sky dances.

The way she danced through life was poetry.

She’s beautiful chaos and wild butterflies.

Fast cars like Porsches and Ferraris – they are things of beauty.

You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.