“Heaven is not something you need to die to get to.”

I am always becoming a new tragedy. Trading one torture for another. Forever versatile in this becoming.

Shame is what happens when you learn self love through people who are difficult to forgive.

Sometimes I open my mouth and my mother comes out.

Its okay if all you did this year was survive.

Self Love is just me loving you in reverse.

The last person I adored made me cry and then tenderly wiped the tears off my face. It was the only lesson that taught me; you can love someone and still do horrible, cruel things to them.

We romanticize trauma so much that we have stopped trying to prevent it and started smiling at all the scars it leaves.

Healing can look a lot like violence.

Can we just pretend we are wanted?

It is terrifying to wonder whether that person you love is a walking red flag or a white flag of surrender dipped in your own blood.

I am tired of only being loved in theory.

Her body is a undiscovered country and she is afraid that someone will colonize it and expect her to thank them for the wreckage.

You are something I am trying to love; Not something I am trying to survive.

When will I realize the absence of hate is not love?

I tell the boy in my class that no means no and he laughs in my face – says no means change my mind.

Loving you and leaving you taste the same in the mouth?

You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.

Do not feel sorry for me if I am gone.

Those who are prepared to die for any cause are seldom defeated.

I don’t want to take anything to the grave. I want to die used up and emptied out. I don’t want to carry around anything I don’t have to. I want to travel light.

Often, we need to ignore the words people say and attend to their underlying, urgent, life or death questions: Am I valuable? Am I loved? The great thing is that the answer is easy: Yes! The answer is always yes. We don’t have to think too hard.

In the future, there will be fewer but better Russians.

I know that after my death a pile of rubbish will be heaped on my grave, but the wind of History will sooner or later sweep it away without mercy.

Love dies because its birth was an error.