words are like nets - we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder.

Just because it's fiction doesn't mean it's any less true.

Sometimes there aren't words. The silence between us is flung wide as an ocean. But I manage to reach across it, to wrap my arms around him.

But you could only remake your own future, not anyone else's, and for some people that just wasn't good enough.

When your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: there’s no right way and wrong way to do it. We’re all just wired differently. It's also worth noting that when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he’s right or left-handed. After all: does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen?

Be kind to others before you take care of yourself; make whoever you're with feel like they matter.