It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.

If you let hope inside, it takes you over. It feeds on your insides and uses your bones to climb and grow. Eventually it becomes the thing that is your bones, that holds you together. Holds you up until you don't know how to live without it anymore. To pull it out of you would kill you entirely.

I have tried to be righteous all my life. Yet I have never been content.

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.

In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.

Some things are created to be together.

It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.