In 18 years, I’ve experienced more death than births; I’ve been to more funerals than weddings.
The first time I broke down, I was caught by a boy with green eyes who made my world go round; the thirtieth time I fell, he was no longer there to soften my fall.
Love is a painful thing: it takes a smooth, beating heart and leaves it broken, bleeding, and jagged for the next person to cut themselves on.
I have written more stories than letters, but all of my stories are letters in their own right—addressed to the wrong person, so the right one will never read them.
I’ve realized that it is better to leave over time than to do so suddenly—to burn out slowly than to be extinguished by a gust of wind; however, I’ve set myself on fire, trying to ignite the sky on my skin, trying to burn myself all at once, trying to erase the memories that are on replay in my mind. But the sparks don’t catch, and I don’t turn to ash; I just become more fire resistant over time.
Every time I begin to fall in love, I’m left out in the cold; love is a difficult thing: sometimes the hearts don’t connect because of missed glances, missed chances. These are the moments when I wonder what it would feel like to be inside someone else’s chest, to be the beating organ that is keeping them alive; I learned that broken hearts don’t mean broken spirits: crumbling walls and leaking ceilings can be fixed, scars will heal over time.
The wind knows all my secrets, and you can too if you just listen.
I’ve learned that promises are only as strong as the person who tells them, which is why I’m trying to be stronger— I’ve been weak for far too long.
I fall too far too fast, because my head is always in the clouds; my knees are permanently skinned from plummeting down to earth when reality hits me in the chest and tells me you’re not coming back.
I love to read, because everybody has a story; and I’ve thrown caution to the wind, hurling mine into the ocean as I watch you swim out to rescue it.
No matter how far I get from the shore, there will always be sand beneath my feet.
I dance in the rain because I don’t feel as lonely as I’m being kissed from heaven.
Autumn is beautiful, because the trees lose themselves and find themselves again in the spring. Pain has a way of doing the same thing, which is why the scars on my skin trickle through my writing, because that’s what I know.
I turn in my bed like the last page of a book, but there’s nothing to stop me from falling except myself.
I watch the moon and stars at 2 am wondering if you can see them from where you are; and when I see a shooting star, I wish that you were here with me.
Love is more than falling in love; it’s about falling out of love. It’s about losing someone you once held dear—a friend, a significant other, a family member.
I love you.
I adore you.
I miss you.