“I would throw down roots with you if I ever had the chance. We’d grow strong in tender shoots, and bloom in burning hands.”

I am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.

You’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.

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”.

Love me until oblivion paints your portraits on my eyelids, sinking by eons into distance that never separates us.

I don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.

Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.

We usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.

When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.

I pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.

To the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.

I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.

Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.

Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.

The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.

The search for external sources is nothing compared to internal forces.

Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.

Don’t be a match to someone else’s candle because, in the end, you’ll both burn out.

Her eyes sparkled with diamonds of hope and burned with fires of raw passion.

If he was the flame then I was the moth and I would burn with a smile on my face.

He was a wildfire burned bright and fast and free.

It pains me to know that too much fire has been burned between us because you were my spark.

Age appears best in four things: old wood to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust and old authors to read.

I am a woman who came from witches those they tried to burn came rising higher than ever imagined and I am a woman who has this power behind me with every step.

You have the heart of a supernova the fire burns with such impenetrable heat, and don’t you ever let anyone try to extinguish the inferno you carry inside.