“Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.”

I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.

The deepest pain I ever felt was denying my own feelings to make everyone else comfortable.

You can’t tame a girl who has her head. In the clouds and one foot out the door.

Every now and then even the sweetest souls burn it to the ground, just to remind the rest of them who exactly they are fucking with.

Pleasure or pain; I’ll take either as long as it is laced with passion.

I could lose myself in you or die blissfully, trying.

I drink to the ones that can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.

I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.

Oh my darling, you mustn’t fill up on memories alone, there is heartache and regret yet to be served.

When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.

I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.

I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices, life.

One day I will fall gracefully to pieces. Until then, I’ll just fall.

Whatever it is that stirs your soul listen to that. Everything else is just noise.

He calms my chaos and I fuel his fire. We are a match made between heaven and hell.