Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.

If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch’s works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.

For men love what they cannot have, and hate what they cannot control.

Danger sweetens the brew. Makes it more delicious.

For a moment in time, a man knew me for who I was and, without reservation, loved me for who I was. How can I now live knowing no one will ever see me again in such a perfect light? Hear me as I wish to be heard? Love me as [he] loved me?

Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.

Am I pretty? I must be, I thought, for all girls in love are pretty.