Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

What have I eaten? Lies and smiles.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.