“You are a dangerous collection of all my favorite things. An old soul, a heart of gold, and hands that make my body sing.”

To heal you must forgive your heart, your skin, your body, all of their mistakes.

What I have spent in mourning is the price I have paid for my healing.

Even without him, you can bring down monsters. Believe me. You can still bring down monsters.

My Fairy Godmother is my heart sustaining me.

When I held her, I held her gently so that she always knew she could fly away and I would never harm her or clip her wings.

She’s a woman in love and is loved in return. That is a powerful thing.

The world is not allowed to make a meal of you, girl. It is there for your consuming.

You are permitted to be cruel sometimes, and you are allowed to fall apart, and feel every emotion they tell you not to feel.

I am more powerful than I am damaged and I will rise from any abyss you drown me in.

And she needs no prince or knight to save her, because her might is enough to tame dragons.

Survival is ugly. Healing is messy. Self-love is complicated.

So when they ask you what you weigh, you don’t need to look down at any scale. Instead, simply tell them the truth; tell them how you weigh whole universes and storms and scars and stories, too.

Before we had mouths or language or hope, we still had love. I know it’s not much. But my god, it’s beautiful and on so many days it is enough.

If a woman does not fit the shape of what you think a woman should, if a woman is not obedient, does not see things the way you do, if a woman is too independent to need anything more than herself, does she automatically become a threat filled with such terror to you?

It has taken me some time to learn that although karma exists, you can let your hatred go, not by destroying your own magic but by letting it grow.

The worst story I know is my heart. The best story I know is my heart. Both these truths know how to exist together in ways I never thought I will learn. This is the quietest of victories.

Words have taken hostage of my tongue. All the things I’m too afraid to say collect like volcanic ash in my lungs. Vulnerabilities bleed on paper but leave my mouth – never.

I’m afraid of the skeletons in my closet. I’ve got a whole cemetery full of them.

The collection of taxes which are not absolutely required, which do not beyond reasonable doubt contribute to public welfare, is only a species of legalized larceny. Under this Republic the rewards of industry belong to those who earn them.

It is good to collect things, but it is better to go on walks.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Here’s a memory, which like most memories is imperfect and subjective—collected long ago like a beach pebble and slipped into the pocket of my mind.

You can’t tax business. Business doesn’t pay taxes. It collects taxes.

What is man? He’s just a collection of chemicals with delusions of grandeur.