I learned that fear doesn’t always hurt, and grace isn’t always pretty. I learned that sometimes, you need to sink fully into your fear and roll around with it until you are so beat and bruised that the bluing of your scars starts to get lost in the scent of your skin and it combines to form a sticky sweet color that you cant help but love.

I want breakthroughs, daily. I want enthusiasm rooted in constant aching. Every word needs to pump out of me like unsteady droplets of paint splattering across the floor.

You are my wandering mind and my listless heart. You are my bones. You make up entire chunks of me.

It’s a desperate hope that we cling to, that we crave so endlessly. And I hope we never stop craving.

I want to bombard you with feeling so that when you need to escape your own, you can always have mine. You can always, always have my heartbeats.

It was here, in that half state of delirium that the post mortem heartbreaks insist upon, that I learned how to love again.

Let go of that overpriced, over-hyped dream you like to lounge in, and make room for the parts of you that write with hurt and nostalgia and fear. Hold up these parts and turn them inside out so that the world can feel them and feed them with their own broken parts.