“Spilling coffee-like tea on Sunday mornings with like-minded women is my favorite color of blooming.”

Hard crash everything good has to end take your fucking Prozac.

You were the best and worst nights of my life fucking while the flames lick us at least you’re a distraction from my spiritual death. You’re a god damn angel in a crack den.

I am a woman writer the last thing I am is weak.

Your silence speaks in waves I am trying to not drown in my own thoughts let alone yours.

And when I pour myself unafraid like the shatter had a purpose I become the wave.

I gave names to all my disorders to humanize the pain.

You were poetry in a dark hallway whispering to know me in a psychotic way the way your neck tattoos straddle my throat I’m envious of every girl you’ve ever known.

Talking to you wrecks me because it is a glimpse into what I could have had if only.

Dry throat on the days I’d rather just watch the candle burn.

I want my cake and to eat it too but bulimia runs rampant and she is a fucking bitch.

If nothing else you have inspired me to write beautiful poetry if nothing else I bring words to the table with me.

Loneliness has taught me more things about myself than love ever has.

I love you I’m just trying not to wear my heart on my text messages.

We are survivors we glisten in the sun for all the nights I died alone I did not know another woman carried my song and it is beautiful now look what we have become.

We live in a society where I am a crazy bitch for going to any lengths to keep you away from me.

Writing spiteful poetry in a chapel I realized I have to love you no matter what you do.

Every person you meet will hold the same lesson for you, until you learn what is needed for your growth.

The heart is like a garden. It can grow compassion or fear, resentment or love. What seeds will you plant there?

A woman at 20 is like ice, at 30 she is warm and at 40 she is hot.

You’re an artist. Beauty grows in you.

There are griefs which grow with years.

I always just sit down at the piano and make the main hook—what I want the track to be about melodically—and then I’ll build everything else around that. But growing up, I did not play any instruments.

I am old enough to know that a red carpet is just a rug.

I don’t mind growing old. If I have to go before my time, this is how I’ll go– cigarette in one hand, glass of scotch in the other.