Trust is an illusion. A systematically flawed word. A total forgery of a statement. Trust assumes infallibility – without errors, mistakes, or fuck ups.
ALETHEIA LIOLAClutching a burning match, he said “look, and she’ll explode”. Ignored the gas he poured; his match caused my implode.
More Aletheia Liola Quotes
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You can find beauty in the darkest of places. Be the light, my love. Bring smiles to their faces.
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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.
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I survived because the fire I have inside me burns brighter than the fire that surrounds me forever thriving with blazing vitality.
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Endless consumption will not make you feel whole suffer, stained items are not good for the soul.
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All my trauma grown to thorns, he overlooked it all. Perhaps they caused him to bleed in ways I can’t recall.
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After the flood, the colors were brightened demand tears of pain to feel so enlightened. Lassoed hope from the clouds that caused it to rain, divine intervention to feel love again.
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How do we trust others when we can’t even trust ourselves?
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The only way I’ll ever choose to taste sweet love again, Is if he tells me, he loves my mind, and the way I use my pen.
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You, a God I worshipped Your word was music to my ears Rose-tinted glasses: verdict You confirmed all my worst fears.
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A part of me died on the battlefield and a part of me was born. Vulnerability shed like peeling skin. Trust from my core was torn. I was caught between a disassembled heart and a young and fearful mind. I made peace with these pieces as I fell apart with the courage that I made mine.
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Why do I see in a world gone blind? I always longed to find the answers, took chances. Asked for the veil to thin. Fault? Mine. Left questioning; my eyes, blessings or curses?
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He dirtied my name with his dark and muddy lies. The earth he left grew flowers for the butterflies & now I thrive.
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Have faith in the fall. Sometimes life knocks us down so that we can discover what resides at the bottom of it all.
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He always preferred the way my eyes looked after they had cried. I wish he knew how fine they looked once he had said goodbye.
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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.
ALETHEIA LIOLA