Why are some things easier to write than say?
I wonder if I will ever have the strength to hold onto something. Or if I will always be someone who destroys.
Now that I've found the way to fly, which direction should I go into the night?
Everything I dream is something simple and plain and everyday. That’s how I know they are dreams. Because the simple and plain and everyday things are the ones that we can never have
Red is the first color of spring. It's the real color of rebirth. Of beginning.
I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.
And I laugh at myself for thinking I could touch the sky.
I can trust in my parents' love. And it strikes me that is a big thing to trust, a big thing to have had, no matter what else happens.
I have tried to be righteous all my life. Yet I have never been content.
We can either try to change everything or just make the most of whatever time we have.
And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.
Do you think you could let someone go if you thought it was best for them?
I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.
It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.
We could have been happy. I know that, and it is perhaps the hardest thing to know.
It's been so long since I've let myself feel anger that I don't just feel it. It covers my mouth and I swallow it down, the taste sharp and metal as though I'm gnawing through foilware.
I had really great parents who always gave me lots of opportunity for choice, but I didnt always realize how rare that was for a girl for them to say, You can be a mom or have a career or do both or do something we havent thought of yet.
Teens find out a lot from other teens.
Theres nothing like reading about a world that feels dead to throw your own beautiful, colorful life into sharp relief.
Being a teen is past for me. Worrying about the world and my place in it is not.
Caring about anyone leaves you vulnerable.
Does loving someone mean you want them to be safe? Or that you want them to be able to choose?
There is something extraordinary about the first time falling.
Because I feel no anger toward my mother. Only loss, and loss is a feeling you can’t fight your way out of as easily.
I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.
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