…what good would it do toshutter your windows, neverdream of rainbows or find hopein promises? Why choose to walk awayrather than hold your groundand fight for love?

Anger is easier than forgiveness.

Honesty. Sobriety. My virginity. No way to regain the first two, I almost gave away the last.

Innocence eroded into nightmare.All because of very bad touch.Love, corrupted.

I thought he’d run if he knew. Instead, he offered help, not that I believed he could possibly help. I thought he’d turn his back, close his heart, slink away. Instead, he promised sanctuary.

The truth is, I’ve always been afraid of letting anyone get too close. I built a wall around me, a barricade to hide behind those few times someone wanted entry to my heart.

I love the way she feels inthe curve of my arm. I loveher unpretentious beauty,her intelligence, her nerve.But could I ever love her?The concept of falling in loveis completely foreign, somethingI can’t bring myself to...

Hurt. Enough to want to make someone else hurt too.

Nonfiction speaks to the head. Fiction speaks to the heart. Poetry speaks to the soul. It’s the essence of beauty. The essence of pain. It pleases the eye and the ear.

Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.Easier staying pissed. But I’mtired of being pissed all the time.Tired of feeling hurt by stuff thatcan never be fixed because it isan indelible part of the past.

…Every word an author writes causes ripples, like tossing a stone into a pond. And you don’t know where they’ll go, or who they’ll touch, or when they might come back to you. I think...

Sometimes,you don’t wake up.But if you happento, you know thingswill never bethe same.