I don't like my language watered down, I don't like my edges rounded off.

We negotiate with chaos for some sense of satisfaction.

Stepped out into the cold, collar high, under the slate gray sky. The air was smoking and the streets were dry, and I wasn't joking when I said goodbye.

Love was always the goal, and my point every step of the way was that nothing is wrong with love, no matter what flavor it comes in.

The windows of my soul are made of one-way glass, don't bother looking into my eyes if there's something you want to know, just ask

How come I can pick my ears, but not my nose? Who made up that rule anyway? How can you say that's the way it is, that's just the way it goes, why don't you decide fore yourself what you can do?

I know men are delicate origami creatures who need women to unfold them, hold them when they cry. But I am tired of being your savior and I am tired of telling you why.