I can’t quite figure out the difference between loving someone and loving things about them.

It’s incredible how small the English language gets when you’re trying to make it fix something.

Feelings are like blankets, covering you up so you can't see clearly, or like mazes you can too easily get lost inside. I am terrified of getting lost.

This is another awful truth of losing people you love: everyone needs something different. And the needs almost never match up.

I hate the way the world feels when love is gone

I want to know if we are the same, in the moments when we’re stripped bare.

If you love someone and they vanish, you are left nodding like a zombie and throwing teacups at a wall.

We’re all a little broken, on the sidewalk. On the street. In the city.

We are our mothers’ daughters, are we not?