“I’m sorry I wasn’t up to your standards but I’m not sorry I didn’t downgrade myself to get there.”

I loved poetry the moment it turned my pain into something beautiful.

We are just broken things pretending to be whole.

And when we hurt someone whose hurt us, do we call it coping or cruelty?

It’s nameless, this feeling between you and me.

I’ve come to love these moments of sunshine with you.

How can I love again when all your love remains with me.

I hope you know that you are the only thing I have ever craved.

I want you to know that I think of you often between dreams and wishes.

Things end but greater things begin.

I want you to love me like a dream come true.

I was a living breathing nightmare and he was my favorite dream catcher.

And we look the devil in the eyes, take his hand and dance away.

She didn’t want the light at the end of the tunnel. She was perfectly at home in the darkness.

And if I lay in the sun a little longer maybe then, I can burn for something other than him.

I just feel kind of lonely in these moments between moments.

I have an unhealthy obsession with the stars. They remind me of you.

I am sorry we promoted sexual orientation change efforts and reparative theories about sexual orientation that stigmatized parents.

Freedom, baby, is never having to say youre sorry.

Real sacrifice. Real disappointment. Real failure. And it requires the ability to scrape your sorry ass up off the floor, stumble to your feet.

Real success and accomplishment, at whatever it is you are passionate about, requires real work.

I’m not running around as a continual ray of sunshine. It’s just I don’t believe in wasting time feeling sorry for myself. Get over it.

Glen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.

Democracy forever teases us with the contrast between its ideals and its realities, between its heroic possibilities and its sorry achievements.

Apologies have nothing to do with you. They are balloons in the sky. They may never land.