“Your mother is in a habit of offering more love than you can carry.”

On the first day of love, you wrapped me in the word special.

I was music but you had your ears cut off.

Every revolution starts and ends with his lips.

It must hurt to know I am your most beautiful regret.

My heart aches for sisters more than anything it aches for women helping women like flowers ache for spring.

That is the thing about selfish people. They gamble entire beings. Entire souls to please their own.

You’ve touched me without even touching me.

I am losing parts of you like I lose eyelashes unknowingly and everywhere.

This morning I told the flowers what I’d do for you and they blossomed.

My heart is beating, and I’m breathing, and nothing anybody has ever done has changed that.

You cannot leave and have me too I cannot exist in two places at once-when you ask if we can still be friends.

You were not wrong for leaving you were wrong for coming back and thinking you could have me when it was convenient and leave when it was not.

Even if this is a mistake. It could only be right to be this wrong with you.

Loneliness is a sign you are in desperate need of yourself.

You look at me and cry everything hurts. I hold you and whisper but everything can heal.

The world gives you so much pain and here you are making gold out of it – there is nothing purer than that.

You get what you repeat.

Our happiness depends on the habit of mind we cultivate.

Once your pride gets involved, you’ll fight tooth and nail to maintain your habits.

I have learned that champions aren’t just born; champions can be made when they embrace and commit to life-changing positive habits.

Good habits can make rational sense, but if they conflict with your identity, you will fail to put them into action.

It’s hard to change your habits if you never change the underlying beliefs that led to your past behavior. You have a new goal and a new plan, but you haven’t changed who you are.

We imitate the habits of three groups in particular: The close. The many. The powerful.

The job of the poet (a job which can’t be learned) consists of placing those objects of the visible world which have become invisible due to the glue of habit, in an unusual position which strikes the soul and gives them a tragic force.