Writing is very cathartic for me. As a teacher, I hear many students say that writing can be painful and exhausting. It can be, but ultimately I believe that if you push through, the process is healing and exhilarating.
If you want to find the trail, if you want to find yourself, you must explore your dreams alone. You must grow at a slow pace in a dark cocoon of loneliness so you can fly like wind, like wings, when you awaken.
Tinys do not deserve safety. If they are to prove themselves, they must suffer and die or suffer and survive.
You are in my blood. I cant help it. We can’t be anywhere except together.
If Death is your father, you don’t ever have to worry about what part of his body the disease will strike next. If Death is your lover, you don’t have to be afraid that he will ever leave you.
She pushed the gardener away and called for them. In her sleep she had seen love. It was poisoning. It was possessing. Devouring. Or it was seven pairs of boots climbing up the stairs to find her.
Flowers are reincarnation. They come out of the earth of our ashes. Nothing else looks so soul-like.
I dreamed of being a part of the stories – even terrifying one, even horror stories – because at least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
She had changed him. The ice was in his eyes and in his heart, like he had predicted with that song, but now they were deep embedded there, all the pain of the world. Not pain to make you feel for somebody else but pain to make you stop feeling.
It’s important to tell your story. It’s important to listen.
My mother said, “kiss him, darling, it’s easy so natural” and I thought to myself, not with lips of stone, dear mother, not with lips of stone.
What happens to the rest of something when you smash its heart?
She wished she had a little yellow house of her own, with a flower box full of real flowers and herbs – pansies and rosemary – and a sweet lover who would swing dance with her in the evenings and cook pasta and read poetry aloud.
Besides, secretly, without knowing it herself, she had been waiting for a Beast to go to.
If death is your lover, you don’t got to be afraid ever that he will ever leave you.
When they first kiss, there on the beach, they will kneel at the edge of the Pacific and say a prayer of thanks, sending all the stories of love inside them out in a fleet of bottles all across the oceans of the world.
Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form...
War is being reminded that you are completely at the mercy of death at every moment, without the illusion that you are not. Without the distractions that make life worth living.
At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
You asked me who I thought I was before. I said maybe I was a fish because I love water and you said, you thought a mermaid, maybe. If you were a mermaid, you said, if you were a mermaid, I was the sea.
If you were a mermaid, you said, If you were a mermaid, I was the sea.