“But fear is love that has been convinced that it never belonged.”

Hope has never looked the same twice. Pain has never looked the same twice. Love has never looked the same twice.

I remember my mother whispering me every night, if you don’t hold that little light inside you, the universe will let go off the hold of you.

Isn’t this loneliness a strange poetry? you want everyone to read, but you are never willing to write it down.

I will feel whatever the fuck I want to feel.

And nothing that will be touched, even with the tiniest of love, shall continue to live the same.

We are what this world refuse to carry. So we carry ourselves so we carry ourselves so we carry ourselves.

And that is how time heals, not by erasing but by blurring all the memories.

I am not home for somebody else’s trauma.

Too much of what I write takes me back to you.

Even if you look for peace in the places you won the war, you will not find any.

I am trying to talk about love without biting my tongue.

Whatever I feel is not a choice, but dwelling on it is, so I stand up and walk and walk and walk a w a y.

She is the old school hard love, your modern brittle love can’t afford to carry.

You don’t know how to love, so you give it all. But isn’t that how one should love? by giving all of it.

Stop giving your infant heart/ wrapped in blind vows/ white lies/ and a haunted past/ stop asking for love/ if you don’t know how to give any/ stop hurting others/ stop it/ stop it/ just fucking stop it.

They call my love immature, naive and foolish, as if, wisdom made a better lover out of them.