It is one thing to make a choice and it is another thing to never have the chance.

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

Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.

I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.

When we read dystopia, we root for these people to break free because we are these people; hoping and fighting against things that are bigger than ourselves.

It's been so long since I've let myself feel anger that I don't just feel it. It covers my mouth and I swallow it down, the taste sharp and metal as though I'm gnawing through foilware.

Theres nothing like reading about a world that feels dead to throw your own beautiful, colorful life into sharp relief.