“How many wounds can you convert to wisdom? How much pain to power can you permute and fathom? This is your story; rewrite how it’s written.”

I think we all long for someone we can be disgustingly honest with, and for them to love us anyway, and stay.

So what do we say to each other is the language of unspoken? The words are sweet; the space is bitter or is this just the them I’ve chosen.

Be aware of the judgments that you and others conjure. The words reflect the inner world; the doctrines that you sponsor.

Our interpretations reflect our imperfections. We will always read between the lines, but we decide what we choose to find.

Only after you have fallen to the pits of despair, can you fly to the horizon of hope.

I survived because the fire I have inside me burns brighter than the fire that surrounds me forever thriving with blazing vitality.

Sobriety is something I’ll never reach. There’s always another day, another urge to defeat.

How do we trust others when we can’t even trust ourselves?

Trust is an illusion. A systematically flawed word. A total forgery of a statement. Trust assumes infallibility – without errors, mistakes, or fuck ups.

Trust assumes loyalty; and loyalty in the true sense of the word, the infinite, devoted kind of loyalty – that kind of loyalty doesn’t exist anymore.

Trust insinuates that the human race is unfailing, faultless, flawless, and perfect.

I can feel her resurrecting. The one he thought he had killed. Strength realised in her resting. It was worth all the blood spilled.

Evil exists in the shadows of our world and I’m realizing that without the darkness there would be no light. We need both to stay alive.

The child within; raised voice; fast heart; flinches. Flight response, with an attitude and broken hinges. The child within; tiptoes; eggshells. Heaven; hell. Still, she finds a quiet place, safe and tranquil; dwell.

Abstruse spite bleeds from their mouth. I hear the venom, It’s screaming so loud, And yet so benign Reaction, not roused Their “nasty”, so nice The beast lost its shroud.

Clutching a burning match, he said “look, and she’ll explode”. Ignored the gas he poured; his match caused my implode.

Love can attain what the intellect cannot fathom.