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“My heart’s been borrowed and yours has been blue/all’s well that ends well to end up with you/swear to be overdramatic and true/to my lover.”

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I’m my own knight. I simply want someone who will stand with me, shoulder to shoulder and conquer the world by my side.

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I don’t want love, I want a partner in crime.

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Who looked at you, and instead of seeing your overabundant brilliance, said that you should be less, do less, feel less?

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I will love you fiercely and passionately in this reality because there is no need for an alternate one.

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Our romance isn’t about building a novel-worthy tale for others to gawk at. Our romance, our love story, isn’t about impressing upon others the obviousness of our love.

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I took it, the poetry, the break-up, by nursing a glass of gin on my mother’s porch. The visit seemed necessary, given the weight of the process. Twice as heavy as the suitcase

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I know who I am and that is someone who loves.

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You don’t have to be sorry for the girl who loves, who loves to love, who will continue to love, even after she is broken.

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My heart has always been an open book that I’ve never learned how to shut. Is that beautiful? Is that something to fear? My softness, so unwilling to be anything other than soft, soft, soft.