“She greets death with a curtsy.”

You can hit me and push me but you can’t quite beat me.

I lay awake thinking about how none of it had to happen for me to get to this point; and how I’m glad I got there, anyway.

It’s just me and my mangled limbs your touch soothing but unconvincing singsong whispers of lives unlived.

And if you only opened the window you’d see the morning light seep through.

Hearts retch on homestretch where will we go?

I don’t believe in love at first sight; only now I realize that you did.

As I feel your heart shatter like sand through my helpless fingers I envision ripples through the tar of your blood.

As we speak I’m at peace, no longer scared to die.

What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.

Perfection of character is this: to live each day as if it were your last, without frenzy, without apathy, without pretence.

I do not believe in my death.

On no subject are our ideas more warped and pitiable than on death.

Most states in the union where the death penalty is theoretically on the books don’t have executions.

You may be gone but you’re never over.

If a man should wanton walk with crime, he shall find in death no great deliverance.