“I loved you even when it hurt.”

The memories won’t die but I will.

I exist too much, I feel too much, think too much. Reality is crushing the life out of me.

I pretend it doesn’t bother me but it’s tearing me apart.

And I’ll miss you, without saying a word.

I told the stars about you.

In the end you learn when to let go and when to hold on.

I loved you as Icarus loved the sun- too close, too much.

All the poetry in the world could not put us together again.

The worst goodbye is the one you never thought you’d have to say.

How sad, to face a future without the one you planned it with.

If it isn’t Happy Ending yet, keep writing.

We’ll go slow, together,

I wish it had meant as little to me, as it did to you.

And life went on. It was not the same, but it went on.

Who you want and who you need and sometimes two different people.

We were almost fine, almost together.

I hope you know you are not alone. In this dismal world full of pain and hurt, you are not alone. This is the simple truth.

Art hurts. Art urges voyages – and it is easier to stay at home.

And I’ve been hurt hurt bad. I might be just twenty-six, but I’m an old woman in disguise twenty-six goin’on sixty-five.

I don’t have nothing to regret at all in the past, except that I might’ve unintentionally hurt somebody else or something.

A hurtful act is the transference to others of the degradation which we bear in ourselves.

The work that hurts you less than it hurts others is the work you were made to do.

Anger is a poison. It eats us inside. We think when we hate someone we hurt them, but hatred is a curved blade, and the harm we do to others we also do to ourselves.

Figure out what makes you laugh, and do more of it. Figure out what makes you cry, and do less of it.