You know my name, not my story. You’ve heard what I have done, but not what I’ve been through.
I notice simple things. The way your hands hold the book you are reading, expressions of your face and eagerness in your eyes while you watch the sunset.
Maybe you’ll find happiness if you try to look below anger, hate and jealousy.
I said Yes a little too soon and I took forever to say No.
Some stories are written by time, and not with a pen.
You remind me of the way in wars people would burn their own cities to the ground so no one else can have them.
I do not like days without you.
Nothing but silence. Solace. Some dried coffee cups. Smokes. And an unknown quest to some already forgotten words in flying white sheets.
Whatever you do, don’t ever go back to what broke you.
Some days are a whisp of sadness and you can do nothing but feel it until it makes you go numb.
They never left your texts unreplied, that ‘seen’ says a lot.
Some feelings don’t have an expiry date.
It’s not like you’d ignore me and I’ll disappear. I’m a deep wound, not a careless scratch.
A woman can never define love. But she just knows what isn’t.
Too many people to talk to. Nobody to have a conversation with.
It’s weird to have a lot in common with the person you hate.
I want to be your last thought when you go to bed and the first one when you open your eyes again. Let me seep into your subconscious.
Every morning, I get up to be mine and every night, I give up on myself as yours.
A passionate woman is worth the chaos.
If you hold the key to their heart, don’t use it to open someone else’s lock.