Now that I've found the way to fly, which direction should I go into the night?

Does loving someone mean you want them to be safe? Or that you want them to be able to choose?

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

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.

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.

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

I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.