i. Nothing ever worth splitting on - poems, heartache, meat - should be done with a blunt butter knife. You need the serrated edge.
ii. I’m learning to wake up every day and catch gold in eager palms.
iii. There are many things that wont matter when I’m dead. How many likes a status has on Facebook is one of them. Whether or not you’ll call me back is another.
iv. I must cultivate kindness. I must polish at it religiously until it gleams, until it’s filled to the brim and the excess spills over onto my lap.
v. Those people, the ones that chip away at your like a woodpecker, the ones that steal the magic in you away like it’s the only thing they know how to do - rid yourself of them.
vi. I want the kind of sex that makes me feel like I’m floating and falling at once.
vii. There is the bad, guilty love, where you feel like you’re going to regret it when it’s all said and done. This love is like picking at a scab before the wound has a chance to heal. It’s like scratching so intently at a mosquito bite it bleeds. Run from it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
viii. There are some days you have to refuse morphine just so you know you can make it on your own.
ix. God knows it’s not healthy to look back after you’ve said goodbye, but the curiosity always compels me to do so. Will you be looking back at me? Will I ever see you again?
x. Maybe we don’t want love, we just want to tell someone the messy, ugly secrets we think will make them leave and watch in awe as they stay.
x. I will always love the boy with eyes like gondolas and hands like shadow play.