She tasted of coffee and day old poetry.

Growing up she had become used to allowing men the ability to curve themselves into question marks around her and hold her desperately as if she were the answer. She had become afraid to admit that she is not.

This is how you explain how you feel: broken words and hard truths.

This is how you love: you do it in all the wrong ways, because that is the only way we know how.

Sleeping with books is a vicious affair, I do not believe it will ever stop.

I wanted to say "don't leave me," but I'm so tired of begging people to stay.