“Maybe in another life I’d tell you I loved you and you’d stay.”

Hold me. Just hold me and maybe in the morning I’ll be ready to love you.

I came into this world screaming. I plan to leave it quieter, softer and letting everything I’ve done do the talking.

In people and poetry I have found a way to heal.

You tossed me out like dirt but out of dirt roses grew and I have more thorns than petals.

I may have forgiven you but forgiving myself is a much slower process.

I build a world inside you I shattered when you left and took it with you.

I am a mess of insomnia, broken promises, and better tomorrows that never came.

Loneliness is the realest feeling I have ever known.

In a final Act of self preservation, I cut you out of my life.

Time is a cruel thing. You can have all the time in the world with someone but when it ends it still won’t be enough.

Truth- I am broken. Dare- Love me anyway.

You made a goddamn mess of me but watch me rise from the ashes.

He took everything from me when he put his hands on me.

My body is covered in scars where silver blades kisses my skin and pretended to be love.

Mother, I want to die this world is too cruel and I am too fragile.

This town is too small for you. You were always meant for bigger things. Girls like us aren’t fit for cages we are meant to fly.

But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.

We’d been apart so long-I’d been dead so long, she said in English. I thought surely you’d built a new life, with no room in it for me. I’d hoped that.

A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.

Self-acceptance was the foundation of the happiest time in your life and it was the engine that powered the train.

The talk of lovers who have just declared their love is one of life’s most sweet delights. Each vies with the other in humility, in amazement at being so valued. The past is searched for the first signs and each one is in haste to declare all that he is so that no part of his being escapes the hallowing touch.

One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better.

Life is ours to be spent, not to be saved.

The novel is the one bright book of life. Books are not life. They are only tremulations on the ether. But the novel as a tremulation can make the whole man alive tremble.