The reasoning is this: I write about the people who break my heart. The fact that now you are the subject of my art means just that, you have succeeded in doing so.

I don’t want to be the thing that satisfies you, but only for a moment.

If I were given the chance to love you in person, I would ask for a space on your skin to tattoo the poem I’d written for you. 

I’m not your dream girl. I didn’t ride in on a white horse to be everything you ever hoped and dreamed. I’m not here to save you.

I hate that I put myself through this for someone who doesn’t care about me at all.

The beautiful thing about getting our heart broken is that it cracks us open to raw and powerful emotions that we generally try to avoid. k.

The writer, the woman, and the lover in me, are all intertwined. I let someone become my muse, and I don’t know if that was the wisest decision I ever made.

We torture ourselves by remembering the minuscule details about you, just so we can put it down on paper and create something worth reading.

Let’s begin with my personal back story.

Who says you can’t “feel it all” just because you now work a 9-5 and regularly fraternize with people closer in age to your dad than yourself?