“Take me someplace where I can feel something-I want to give away my heart. Tell me his name so I can know love when it speaks to me. Give me someone I can write about.”

How do I thank my mother for giving me the life she desperately wanted to give herself.

I have given so much to things that weren’t worth my time. When all along, it’s the people I love that I should have carried.

Most people want to save the entire world. It’s a lovely thought, and I’m not saying it’s not a noble pursuit-but it’s impossible to save everyone. You just have to pick your little corner of the world and focus your energy there. That’s the only way you will ever make a difference.

I am already nostalgic for what we have, even with you still here.

The most beautiful thing is not when you learn to live without something: it’s the moment you realize you never needed it in the first place.

you cannot control the depth of a wound another inflicts upon you.

I used to think people were like lighthouses. That they were there to protect you. But they’re no. People are lime whirlpools. They pull you in; they drag you under. You have to work so hard just to keep your head above water.

Yes, we took it all for granted-but isn’t that such a blessed thing? When you’re not even thinking about what you have, because you never imagine you someday won’t.

I have happened in so many places, to so many people – the essence of me lives on in these nuances, these moments.

How many people have we known all our lives and never once loved. How many people have we loved and never known.

We all have moments of darkness, moments when we are so unlike ourselves. And like vultures they wait for a slip, a misstep, then they take that part of us and try to convince the world that is all we are.

I have buried myself so deep in my words that sometimes I can’t tell if I am the person writing or the one hiding between the lines.

Why do you write? he asked. So I can take my love for you and give it to the world, I reply. Because you won’t take it from me.

I don’t think about myself as much as I used to. I guess that’s a good thing. I only think about the things that are missing from me.

Fear isn’t a reason when it comes to love–it’s an excuse. Anyone who has ever been in love will tell you that.

I was loved in my dreams last night. It echoed through me like thunder-I felt it through and through.

You are a nameless prayer, my heart begs to be brought again to existence.

They said everything I lost will come back to me. I said -everything I’ve lost is too lost to ever come back to Me.

My love isn’t love. It is devotion. I don’t fall in love, I shatter. I don’t love, I worship.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

Dreams are built, and hearts are broken, by things that are said, but not meant.

It is not your job to fix people. I know your heart aches to see people you love in pain. But it is not your job to make their burden your own – that is not your path.

I am always becoming a new tragedy. Trading one torture for another. Forever versatile in this becoming.

Some people just prefer to have their hearts broken.