“My flowers rot beneath my bed. I was too selfish to part with them. I hope their deaths don’t bring hexes. Did I say flowers? I meant my exes.”

I was born from nature therefore, I am art.

For my own sanity, I must love myself in an obsessive and urgent manner. My life depends on it. I am healing.

With all the secrets and lies you keep. Your beauty is only skin deep. Vamp.

Everything intensifies during a full moon. Your edge creeps up slowly on the awaiting shore.

Because of her, I know unconditional love. Because of him, I have learned to forgive. Life lessons from mom and dad.

If I can inhale I can speak up.

I am filled with mirth at my own rebirth.

Leave all hurt in the past to let love in. Hopeful. Don’t block your blessings.

You don’t need him. Bloom baby, bloom.

Even the prettiest rose wilts.

What a privilege to be a woman.

But you’re acting like a weed.

A rose with her thorns is still a rose.

It was simply divine intervention.

Penetrate me with a love so deep, you will have ruined me for all others.

Oasis in the desert I swallow you entirely.

It felt almost rude to ignore toe pretty white bed, but we just weren’t going to make it that far.

They’re talking about banning cigarette smoking now in any place that’s used by ten or more people in a week, which, I guess, means that Madonna can’t even smoke in bed.

I would lie in bed, and I was nine years old, and say to myself: ‘I want to be the richest man in the world.’ I’ve come a long way from there.

I love being in bed almost as much as I love food.

When I’m lying in bed I think about the next collection. That makes me sound insane, doesn’t it? That I’m getting into bed with David Beckham and thinking about clothes.

I miss the sweat of september and the stickiness of the sheets.

I have three closets in my bedroom.

Preying on the grievances of disaffected young men is the bedrock of Islamism.