“The ghosts of all the women you used to be are all so proud of who you have become, storm child made of wild and flame.”

Every woman is both match and spark, a light for each other from the dark.

Our stories don’t begin and end because men we once trusted have left them.

I hope you never doubt again that even when you are in pain, that you are a miracle, that every part of you is incredible.

Everyone has forgotten that Lucifer was beautiful too and God’s favorite till he fell.

Knowledge after all is a dark art, full to the brim with liberty, a trembling, malleable power.

People are going to betray you the way Judas betrayed Jesus, the way Brutus betrayed Caesar, and you will love them anyway.

Grief makes unlikely warriors out of us all.

These are girls made of dark lace and witchcraft and a little bit of vice.

But the universe never promised you this would be easy. After all, you are the hero here.

Tell them all what they tried to kill came back. Tell them all that I have come home.

You are still the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told.

A clever woman is more lethal than a freshly crafted magic wand, and that is why she is fear.

Ghosts of the person you used to be are so proud of who you are, they live on inside you applauding you for living on despite your scars.

A story is no small thing.

Fill your life with women that empower you, that help you believe in your magic and aid them to believe in their own exceptional power and their incredible magic too. Women that believe in each other can survive anything. Women who believe in each other create armies that will win kingdoms and wars.

Your body is not a first aid kit for broken people and damaged souls and hearts that are too tired to fix themselves.

And nothing fuels a good flirtation Like need and anger and desperation No, the moth don’t care if the flame is real.

No, the moth don’t care when he sees the flame The moth don’t care if the flame is real ‘Cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal.

The moth don’t care when he sees the flame He might get burned, but he’s in the game And once he’s in, he can’t go back He’ll beat his wings till he burns them black.

Love is a flame that burns everything other than itself. It is the destruction of all that is false and the fulfillment of all that is true.

It is one thing to touch a flame and know it is hot, but quite another to jump into that flame and be consumed by it.

Time takes life away and gives us memory, gold with flame, black with embers.

This day’s nothingness as if from spite became a flame and scorched the lips of children and poets.

Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame