“Softer memories once lived there. Where there is now burning. Where there is now blood.”

But I was brutal and violent in a way they tell women not to be.

Did the girl choose magic, or does magic choose the girl?

Does a heart that is rotted cease to be called a heart?

I will not give up the flowers in my heart for stones just because the world is a hard place. The world is only hard because it needs more flower hearted people.

Nothing will come of forcing yourself to compete your way out of trauma.

Even the day must let go of the sun and allow the light to disappear, so the darkness can live for a while. The only way out of grief is through it.

There is no justice in the world. You have to make your own, because believe me, the cosmos that gifted you the chaos, also created you with care.

You are not his princess. You are your own queen.

Girlhood is confronting the parts of you that you think are too dark for anyone to love.

If he truly loves you, he will love you when you are an ocean breeze but also when you are a summer storm. You were not made to be loved in parts. You were meant to be loved as a whole.

What do you do when you see a love so pure, so completely unwavering other than bow to it?

Burn every memory that does not help you grow. Destruction, too, can be necessary.

There is a difference between holy and pure. Holy is also the way the anger boils inside our throats.

There is a knowing in her, she hears them say, that makes her untamable. She has known since she was a child that she is observant in a way that makes them uncomfortable.

Anxious people are resorceful, they need to know how to keep the sea of panic at bay so they do not drown.

When I was a little girl, I had a friend and sometimes I wondered if he was born on the day the Titanic sank.

The air is all softness.

If the wind itself turned to silk, singing ballads in my lungs, it couldn’t even hope to match the softness of your touch.

My dearest contradiction. You are soft and obliterating, like the moon’s glare upon a sinner.

Beauty doesn’t need ornaments. Softness can’t bear the weight of ornaments.

A house must be built on solid foundations if it is to last. The same principle applies to man, otherwise he too will sink back into the soft ground and becomes swallowed up by the world of illusion.

The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.

Hills that stand soft and a sky that stands high and blue, and the sun setting behind a windmill, and always, always, hazy strings of mountains that fall and fall away on the horizon.

This softness is a double-edged sword it keeps me kind but it can always be used against me.