Mistake, mistake, mistake. A strange word: stinging, somehow.

This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.

Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.

Everyone you trust, everyone you think you can count on, will eventually disappoint you.

it seemed a lifetime ago i'd lain in bed with Lena and felt her breath tickling my chin and held her while she slept, felt her heart beating through her skin to mine. it was a lifetime ago. everything was different.

I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.

I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?