I have never been drawn to luxury. I love the simple things; coffee shops, books, and people who try to understand.
When words failed I realized there was something unspeakably beautiful in not being able to put words to your happiness.
He asked me once what I wanted when I died, what I wanted out of life, and I told him I just wanted more happy memories than sad ones.
Sleeping with books is a vicious affair, I do not believe it will ever stop.
Love no longer becomes a feeling – it becomes a storm.
I found there are many things women ask for in a love. Other women demand money, power, or adventure. All I pray for is that he is patient, and plead that he will love me.
Your beauty will be in shades of melanin and light.
I love the way you lit candles, with the insistence that I never look, just so I can open my eyes and find the light in the darkness.
I’m starting to learn that if things are messy, or pieces don’t get put back right, they are going to hurt, either way.
Therefore, you should fall in love as often as you can. Fall in love with a thing, with a soul, with every person in your life. Fall in love with your very existence. Only then will you know you have lived.
I will never ask of you the impossible, I just ask you to love me in the best way you can.
It is funny how when you have been hurt in love and you fall in love again, every reason you have for loving that person is both enough and not, all at once.
But, darling, I need you to know, you loving me will not heal me. Please realize, I already know that. And I do not expect it to.
I hope these simple things are what I forever love about life, for then I will be happy no matter where I find myself.
You want to be there for me but an anxiety attack is a solitary activity.
This is how you explain how you feel: broken words and hard truths.
You are enough, you are worth it, Worth every ballad, worth every word, every action.
I will show you all the ways in which you are easy to love.
And not one person would notice the grey parts of her until it was too late, because everyone falls for a pretty face.
Growing up she had become used to allowing men the ability to curve themselves into question marks around her and hold her desperately as if she were the answer. She had become afraid to admit that she is not.
The secret is love is a chaotic mess of every emotion we humans have given a name to.
People should love in the same way that they should write; insistently, fervently, forever.
I knew you didn’t love me, but I dangerously adored you anyways.
This is how you love: you do it in all the wrong ways, because that is the only way we know how.
I wanted to say “don’t leave me,” but I’m so tired of begging people to stay.
I want to love like my grandmother, who loved a woman like Joseph loved Mary. Someone so imperfect, so human, brave enough to love someone who already knows God.
I have this idea that writing is all about divergent thinking colliding with a hurricane of emotions.