Humans are the absolute worst thing to happen to this planet.

I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?

Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.

It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.

My worries always lead to dungeons; I can't imagine a worse thing than to be imprisoned for the rest of one's life, especially with so few years to enjoy what little there is.

We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

The trick was looking past the illusion, because the exit was never as far away as it seemed.