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.
Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.
Am I pretty? I must be, I thought, for all girls in love are pretty.
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?