This is my life, I think. I am an accumulation of objects.

Why do we even bother? Why do we make ourselves so open to such easy damage? Is it all loneliness? Is it all fear? Or is it just to experience those narcotic moments of belonging with someone else?

I only have eyes for you.

Self-esteem can be so exhausting. I want to cut my hair, change my clothes, erase the pimple from the near-tip of my nose, and strengthen my upper-arm definition, all in the next hour.

The boy I loved didn't know I existed. Then again, he was obsessed with Camus, so he didn't know if any of us existed.

Serrated, adj. And you said, "I'm not sure we can.

You have to believe there are kisses and laughs and risks worth taking.