“I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.”

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It’s much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

I feel terribly vulnerable and ‘not-myself’ when I’m not writing.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still.

Sometimes sadness can consume us to a point where it feels like you’re in a spiraling black hole that is never ending.

It’s okay to disappear, take your time, to hurt, to feel, to heal.

I’d rather have money and be broken-hearted than be broke and broken-hearted.

Just because I’m smiling doesn’t mean I’m Not hurt.

Trees, though they are cut and lopped, grow up again quickly, but if men are destroyed, it is not easy to get them again.

Forgiveness is important but moving on and never returning to something that broke you is also very important.

The kingdom of God is for the broken hearted.

I miss the feeling of being excited to talk to someone.