Stories and poetry were her delight.

We leave doors open for people who'll never knock again. Stubborn human heart.
Living for the maybes and what ifs. Hoping, until the day it dies.

Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.

Her sorrow was too violent for tears.

It's hard to tell the difference between sea and sky, between voyager and sea.
Between reality and the workings of the heart.

Under peaceful conditions,
the warlike man attacks himself.

She longs to escape into fantasy.

Oh to be free of myself,
with nothing left to remember,
to have my heart as bare
as a tree in December.

But I never wanted to learn the art of letting go.

Drowned in misery, I despised myself for letting a person become my home. For then, I wouldn't have ended up homeless, in search of a place to belong to once again.

And a thought still lingers in my head screaming, "What if it didn't happen the way it did".

Sometimes, it hurts to be the only one who remembers.

I want to lie down like a tired child and weep away this life.

This entire time, I have been slaughtered by memories.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

My thoughts cannot move an inch without bumping into some pieces of you.

And all your fury is to hide a fragile heart.

She liked to disappear, even when she
was in the same room as other people.
It was a talent, as it was a curse.

Only the man and his God know of what sorrows reside in which corners of his heart.

But her soul is a wild one; always set on finding magic in sunsets and sunrises.

You laugh like a little girl,
and inside you think like a martyr.