“I don’t think people love me. They love versions of me I have spun for them, versions of me they have construed in their minds. The easy versions of me, the easy parts of me to love. Who’s going to love the girl that can’t stop crying? The girl that hurts herself? The girl that is losing control? The girl that is so sad she can’t get out of bed? The girl that keeps pushing everyone away? Who’s going to love the monster in me, who’s going to love me now?”
“Writing is an individual event. One must have the motivation and tenacity to sit down in front of their laptop consistently and face the dreaded blank screen. Hoping the words your fingertips pound out will actually form something comprehensible. And if they form something comprehensible, will it actually be something that someone will want to read? And if it’s something someone will want to read, will what you attempt to convey be what they perceive? These are the questions that a writer asks himself when he sits down to write whatever piece he is working on.”
“I untangled my fingers from her hair, as my hands slowly found their way along her arms and settled onto the inward curves of her hips.
I could keep my face buried in her neck for hours, but my lips anxiously wandered down the road of her spine – wading along like a gondolier on still Italian waters.
My eyes remained closed as her breath led the way. I could not care less that I’d gotten lost a thousand times that night because everywhere I touched her, it felt like home. At times, I believed that I was no longer alive, because every time I kissed her, it felt like heaven.”