“My very survival is a spit on your face don’t fuck with a woman who knows her worth.”

When I ask myself why am I even sober anymore I wish I could lose myself for even just a minute without it being a death sentence.

I am on another planet experiencing myself the colors run but I’m not caught up on perfections here I just want to be my own friend again I just want to love my bones without restraint.

It’s those Saturday mornings laughing underneath the sheets it’s a glimpse of everything I dreamed that makes me feel hope for us. Saturdays could be our thing.

Writing saved me when my phone went silent.

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.

Armenia is dying, but it will survive. The little blood that is left is precious blood that will give birth to a heroic generation. A nation that does not want to die, does not die.

Because we have suffered, and we are not afraid to suffer in order to survive, we are ready to give up everything – even our lives – in our struggle for justice.

So, in the interests of survival, they trained themselves to be agreeing machines instead of thinking machines. All their minds had to do was to discover what other people were thinking, and then they thought that, too.

Marry an outdoors woman. Then if you throw her out into the yard on a cold night, she can still survive.

Drama and crisis are currency to them because they love the power to make people react. They thrive on a good fight, a good scandal, a good drama.

You were fully clothed in lies, I was naked in truth. Still, when morning came It was I who survived the cold.

Both strong and weak may survive; if neither takes too seriously, the titles of ‘strong’ and ‘weak’.

What good would it be to possess the whole universe if one were its only survivor?