My mother says that pain is hidden in everyone you see. She says try to imagine it like big bunches of flowers that everyone is carrying around with them. Think of your pain like a big bunch of red roses, a beautiful thorn necklace. Everyone has one.

Our eyelashes brushed like they would weave together by themselves, turning us into one wild thing. I say, “I think I missed you before I met you even.

I wrote poetry from the time I could write. That was the only way I could begin to express who I was but the poems didn't make sense to my teachers. They didn't rhyme. They were about the wind sounds, the planets' motions, never about who I was or how I felt. I didn't think I felt anything. I was this mind more than a body or a heart. My mind photographing the stars, hearing the wind.

Choose to believe in your own myth your own glamour your own spell a young woman who does this (even if she is just pretending) has everything.

Flowers are reincarnation. They come out of the earth of our ashes. Nothing else looks so soul-like.

Maybe her own tears were the poison that made her grow.

You are so intense. Like a storm. It's shocking how intense you are.