There's so much guilt there attached to having a perfectly good life.

You can have this kind of love. You can have it. You just grab it. Of course the problem with having that love is that you can lose it, too.

I still believe that you truly find yourself not in travel, but in other human souls.

If killing yourself is not an option anymore, you have to sink into the darkness instead, and make something out of it.

My thoughts are messy, my emotions are messy, my body goes in and out at will. The raised white scars on my arms and legs are the only aspect of my being that comes close to minimalism. They came from chaos, but it is hard to carve frustration and unease into the flesh. Only straight lines.

Every fear, every night terror, every hour I cried for Liev, every fight with Sebastian is registered as a neat white scar.

He was a super shiny boy and I liked the shape of him. Under the blanket. In the shower. I liked his shadow on the street and his imprint on the sofa. I hated the smell of hair gel on his head, but I loved it on the pillow. I love the smell of losing someone.