Yes, it feels great to plan your life when you believe everything can turn out fine. But what about when you're shown, again and again, how little control you have over anything? No matter what I do to try to fix my future, it doesn't work.

When you try rescuing someone and discover they can't be reached, why would you ever throw that back in their face?

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew—someone I liked. I'm listening... but still, I'm too late.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

When the right moment appears, the key is to not let it pass.