I waited for a long time and there was nothing but the pain of wanting something I couldn't seem to find.

If I'd known it was going to be the last time he'd ever hold me, I'd have paid better attention.

We were broken, brittle and fragile. The question was, were we still precious to each other? Or, instead of everything falling into place, had it fallen into pieces?

He hadn’t been her first lover or the first boy to give her an orgasm. He hadn’t even been the first she’d loved. He’d been the first to turn her inside out with something as simple as a smile. The first to make her doubt herself. He’d taken her deeper than anyone ever had, and yet she hadn’t drowned.

Does madness bring creativity? Or does creativity cause madness? Can an artist create without the ups so high and the downs so low?

The hardest lies to detect are the ones surrounded by truth.

There is so much freedom in not having to choose.