“Be gentle with me. I own scars that do not bleed.”

It is no longer skin that I wear. It is you.

My poetry breaks and cries. I think I really need to let you go this time.

The saddest song you’ll ever know is the one my heart plays for you.

You left me with nothing. But the gift to write the most beautiful sad poems.

My lonely soul drowns in empty bodies.

Nothing feels like home anymore. Even this heart of mine demands to be yours.

To love you is a battle that takes wars to stop.

It’s okay. I’ve been here before. The truth is I’m quite good with goodbyes.

It hurts. That every time I smile, you believe me.

I tell myself I can live without you. And it terrifies me that I don’t know how to.

I loved you in pain and when I began to bleed I called it magic.

I ache to know how it feels to be without having a weight on my soul.

I will never find peace in my broken pieces.

I don’t know if it was suicide to love him. What I mean is, He very much ruined me.

I will always be the one who made you into poetry.

I know there is no such thing as forever. But I promise I will love you until the very end.

It’s not easy when someone pulls your ponytail.

When a mother asks for a second child her body forgets the pain of the first. When I give you a second chance my heart is being forgetful.

This is the role of writers: to turn their tears into a story – and perhaps into a prayer.

When the pain of continuing exceeds the pain of stopping, a threshold is crossed. What seemed unthinkable becomes thinkable.

This is an execution, not surgery. Where does that come from, that you must find the method of execution that causes the least pain?

I am mystic bones and a curious heart. Pain and joy and stardust skin. A sacred soul container. Time and space and matter and illusion. Expansion and contraction. A breathing universe.

Love is nothing but a pain in the ass.

Growth is often a painful process.