“Sometimes I think the loneliness inside of me is going to explode through my skin and sometimes im not sure if crying or screaming or laughing through the hysteria will solve anything at all”

“The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do.”

“We've been shattered and reconstructed, told to make an effort every single day to pretend we still function the way we're supposed to. But it's a lie, it's all a lie; every person, place, thing and idea is a lie. I do not function properly. I am nothing more than the consequence of catastrophe.”

“While a part of me wants to know, another part of me is too exhausted to ask.”

“I lived in a really dark place. I wasn't safe in my own mind. I woke up every morning hoping to die and then spent the rest of the day wondering if maybe I was already dead because I couldn't even tell the difference.”

“It's strange. How hollow i feel. Like there might be echoes inside of me. Like I'm one of those chocolate rabbits they used to sell around Easter, the ones that were nothing more than a sweet shell encapsulating a world of nothing. I'm like that. I encapsulate a world of nothing.”

“So I take a deep breath.Step forward.Let go.10 seconds and I'm trying to breathe9And I'm trying to be brave8But the truth is I'm scared out of my mind7And I have no idea what's waiting for me behind that door6And I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a heart attack5But I can't turn back now4Because there it is3The door is right in front of me2All I have to do is knock1Butthe door flies open first.”

“I can’t be my own person, if i constantly require someone else to hold me together.”

“Is it possible to love someone and then stop loving them? I don't think I even know what love is”

“I'm beginning to think of hope as a dangerous, terrifying thing.”

“we write every day, we fight every day, we think and scheme and dream a little dream every day. manuscripts pile up in the kitchen sink, run-on sentences dangle around our necks. we plant purple prose in our gardens and snip the adverbs only to thread them in our hair. we write with no guarantees, no certainties, no promises of what might come and we do it anyway. this is who we are.”