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I have God in my words and the devil in my ear, and a sister who keeps telling me to find my magic.

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How recklessly we turn from strangers and blindly back to lovers, to nothing.
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Pleasure or pain; I’ll take either as long as it is laced with passion.
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When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.
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Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.
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I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.
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I am world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.
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And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices, life.
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I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.
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He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.
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I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.
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She is of the strangest beauty and the darkest courage, and when she walks with intent the earth trembles beneath her feet.
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Every now and then I roam the catacombs in my head and attempt to resurrect you, and make you shiny again.
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I still pick at these memories of you; I pick them until they bleed.
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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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And now I wander. Forever searching for the pieces of me I should have never given away.
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I write because suicide is no longer an option.
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