A disastrous flaw in our design is that the heart always defies the brain.

He knows her like man knows earth, touching the surface but unaware of her depth.

Life is a lie. We should fear it more than death. We live fearful of dying, terrified of the unknown … when, really, every truth is in our last breath.

Pain writes the words, sorrow wields the pen, tears wet the paper, and the story mends the heart.

Sometimes I can feel my darkness, like a fragment of nerves inside of me somewhere, sparking my hate. I picture it moving throughout my body, the other cells letting it pass by, yielding to its master. It moves to my tongue when it wants me to spew beautiful, damaging words, it moves to my hands when it wants me to feel all it can take away, and it moves to my eyes to blind me from truly seeing the destruction I’ve done.

Sometimes I think my scars are beautiful, but then I remember not everyone shares the same love of art.

If love were human I would’ve set them on fire by now — a screaming blaze of smoke and flesh. I’d breathe in the blackness once more just to feel love’s destruction, its mortality filling in the hollow of my ribcage without a heart.