I don’t have friends. I talk to people when I have to. I smile. I do the socially acceptable thing and tolerate people when I’m at work. But no one gets in my personal space. I don’t need anybody!
Funny how well-rehearsed you can become at being who everyone thinks you should be.
When death can’t stand to conquer something, you know it must be beautiful.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
Fiction was the only way I stayed sane. But I didn’t read romances or fairy tales. Nope. I looked for the gritty, the perverse. The dark. Because those kinds of stories gave me hope that there were far worse things in life than what I was dealing with.
We’re all broken.
In life, there were no rewrites, no edits. Only painful rereads.
Everybody’s broken, chipped, damaged, and we just have to find the one person that can accept our flaws and love them, the one that can take the ugliest part of us and paint something beautiful with it. When you find the person who can create hope and breathe life into you – that’s the person you can’t let get away.
It took me an hour to know you, and only a day to fall in love, but it will take me a lifetime to forget you.
Life changes and molds you with every breath. Death has a way of forcing you to re-evaluate decisions, and fate has a way of shoving your face into everything you’ve lost.
Love is tragic. Love is painful and brutal, but above all, within true love, there is a beauty matched by nothing else. And what truly is tragic is to never love someone the way I love you.
We lived love. A love so tragic and beautiful that it’s only fitting it doesn’t have a happily ever after.
If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse; however if I treat you as though you are what you are capable of becoming, I help you become that.
Depression. It’s a pain in the ass.
Sometimes we make a mistake that can never be undone. We hurt people we never intend to hurt, and it isn’t until years later we realize that although we hurt them, letting them go was the kindest thing we could have done.
I never got over you either,” I ocnfess, and he draws in a deep breath. “It’s because I never would let you go. You felt that, didn’t you?” He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Pienso en ti siempre.” I think of you always.
You’ve always been my exception to everything.
Addicts say there is never a high as great as that first time, and it’s the same with love.
Deep down inside, I’m a selfish bastard, but I’m a selfish bastard that will love her in ways no other man ever will. She has been mine since that first day in English class, since the first time I kissed her and told her I loved her. And really, it’s not my fault another man fell in love with the woman whose heart belongs to me.