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sometimes when i see that you can look human, too,
i feel sorry for hating you so much.
but this has become seldom because you are
the most superficial and belligerent bitch i have ever known.
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every night, i look up at the stars and wonder if you're looking at them too.
and wondering if i'm looking at them.
because that would mean that you think of me too.
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what scares me the most is that one day,
you'll finally realize that you deserve someone better.
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last night, i cried for you.
not because i want you, not because
you don't need me like i need you.
no, i cried because i just wish you were happy.
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people say i'm pretty.
i stare at the mirror for hours,
trying to see what they see.
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Grief is like the ocean. It’s deep and dark and bigger than all of us.
And pain is like a thief in the night... quiet, persistent, unfair... diminished by time and faith and love.
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And ultimately, they find out everything: How you chew, how you sip, how you hum, how you dance. How you smell at every point in the day, how you are on the phone with your mother, the fact that many of your friends are shallow, that you always have to sit on the aisle, how you never really listen, how whiny you get when you travel, how you’re not gracious to her friends when they call, how certain game shows make you really really happy, how cranky you get because you’re too stupid to remember to eat, how you manage to get confrontational only when it’s with the absolute wrong person to be yelling at, how you don’t like the way you look in any picture you’ve taken since 1973, how you’re unable to get off the phone when you’re running late because you don’t have the ability to say, “This isn’t a good time; can I call you back?” How you have to lick certain fruits before actually eating them, how you have no ability to save receipts - all these things, and they still want to sign on. They still like you.
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Out of 1000 hearts, I had to choose you.
One of the comets sent to Earth to burn brightly, explode and turn to dust in my atmosphere.
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People can change. They just don’t because it’s easier not to.
We’re always waiting for our lives to begin, like figuring we’ll be someone else someday.
But what are we waiting for? All we have is now. Don’t run from this.
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I'll see you at your funeral, if you'll see me at mine.
I'll wait at the edges for your ghost to rise (until the end of time).
We'll find someplace nice to haunt, an abandoned beach house filled with memories
of summer sunburns. Children will giggle as we tickle their feet at night
and they'll never know the bad dreams we fight. We'll make our own heaven.
Walking in places we used to walk until death, dies.
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I’ll be here in the morning if you say stay to me.
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Come ride with me through the veins of history, I'll show you how God falls asleep on the job.
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