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Her love was intense.

She loved slowly,
but deeply
and with all that’s left
of her constantly crushed heart.
She understood
that people couldn’t love her
as she did them,
but that was okay
because she knew
that nobody could love
a person the way she did.

She refuses to contain
her love,
for she feels
that there just wasn’t enough
in the world.

If everything has a price,
Just remember this:
No one is worth your happiness;
No one is worth your self-respect.
Your tears are priceless;
Your smiles are precious;
Your laughter is invaluable.
Your mind is worth more than gold,
And your heart worth more than diamonds.
You know what you are worth,
Don’t sell yourself short for anybody.

Maybe we name hurricanes
after people
because some of them
enter our lives
and leave untold destruction
just like one.

Every night,
she would look up at the stars
as she continued to bind her wounds with words;
she was content with the idea
that one day she would return to the sky
and shine in a way she never could on earth.

Be like the stars in the sky
who make their own light
and shine bright,
even when people can’t see them,
rather than the moon
who is completely dependent on the sun.

She shut the door in their faces
and waited for them to leave
because they had before,
and this time wouldn’t be any different.
When the time had come,
and she was sure all of them had gone,
she wrote the last line that she’ll ever write
and disappeared from the world that night.

Is perfection worth destroying yourself over?

Because I tried to be perfect
and I feel like it just wasn’t worth
my tears,
my effort,
my time,
my self-respect.
Everything I sacrificed
from my friends
to my hobbies;
from my dreams
to my happiness;
just for one word,
it didn’t feel right.

And you’d think that it would get easier
but sacrficing who I was,
in the name of perfection,
just kept me feeling more
weighed down and suffocated
by that unattainable title.

So what does perfection cost?
If it is who I am and the things that I love,
I’d rather live without it.

Your presence always sucked the air out of the room
and your touch began to scorch me.
Any part of you touches me,
even accidentally,
makes my body lock up
and my mind scream.
I didn’t know why
until a surpressed memory
broke free to tell me
why my body responds this way.
It wasn’t
the way you
left a hand print on my face
every time you were angry
or the bruises you inflicted
just because you knew you could.
No,
it was the way
your hands touched me
in places I should NEVER be touched,
with such ill intent,
as you stab me with labels:
Whore.
Slut.
Prostitute.
This is why
I can’t bear
to have you touch me.

And before he knew it,
he was falling in love
with a girl who was full of
spirit, spunk and spice,
and simply overflowing with life
that she practically glowed
from the fire in her heart,
the wildness of her soul,
and the beautiful chaos in her mind.