The thing about fate is, are you the master of your fate, or are the stars?
In death, lie. In living, cry. Carry me home to remember to be remembered.
Kind of like love before first sight.” and “Butterflies in your stomach. That was such a crappy metaphor. More like killer bees.
Who can judge the judge?
Don’t spit down my back and tell me it’s raining.
The ways I could hurt her and hurt myself. Those two things were intertwined somehow. It's hard to explain, but when you were as closed off as I was the past few months, opening felt as wrong as stripping naked in church.