“We willingly bleed ourselves dry for those we care without ever stopping to question, when is it enough?”

I hate and love that there’s no hiding who I am from you.

There will be those who seek to destroy you and everything you stand for. No matter what, keep building.

I’ve defined love in so many ways before this moment, but this is by far my favorite.

He stares at me and I know, I know for once that I mean the world to someone.

Why are you waiting around for someone who has not chosen you.

You’re supposed to help your partner progress and push them to be the best version of themselves.

She went through a snowstorm just to lie by his side. He wouldn’t even walk through the rain.

You were never worth the chase and I was always worth the effort.

No one knows how bad this hurts and I won’t tell them Cause I know I’m going to stay and I don’t feel like being judged for it.

I’m sorry is no longer a healing balm. It won’t happen again is just another lie.

Love me to the bone beneath the nerves beyond my mistakes beneath my veins and even as my heart breaks. Love me entirely or not at all.

I’m stuck between loving life and losing my faith in humanity.

I’m not looking for perfect just something worth believing in.

I felt for so long like love had forgotten my name until the day you said it.

I can’t think of anything more beautiful than being loved by you.

Night falls, and the wounds we try to pretend we don’t have begin to haunt us.

Terror made me cruel; and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes.

The blood of the just will be demanded of London, burnt by fire in the year ’66. The ancient Lady will fall from her high place, and many of the same sect will be killed.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

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

I have wolf blood and wolf bones. Don’t expect me to graze with sheep.

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