I’m in love with words.

I’m in love with the way I can take these emotions - these intangible things - and put them down on paper. And after the initial feelings fade, I can go back years and years later and feel the same emotions again just by reading the words I once wrote.

But the one thing I love more than words are the moments that cannot be put down on paper. Moments so special that there are no words to describe them.

Her lips were the remnants of the last boy who had loved her, red like his favourite sweatshirt.

And now she kissed a new boy with dark hair, and she kissed him like she meant it, but he was never quite sure if her closed-eye hunger was real or from practice.

"I want you to love me," she said, "but I’m selfish. I don’t want you to love anyone else."

"I do," he said.

And she thought it was strange that he didn’t ask if she loved him back, as her fingers ran through his hair. And he sighed as her eyelashes brushed his cheeks. He thought it was strange that she could act with such affection when there was really nothing there.

—  S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #155 
They call this cyclone inside my chest a category 4 and climbing. I cannot nail down this ribcage or these hands…I won’t come back from this but I will destroy something that loved because I know that it will rebuild again and I think they call that jealousy, anger, mortality, anything but holy. We are wired to see survival in everything but ourselves. I tried to find the eye of the cyclone, to nestle my bones in the hollow, to surrender to the whisper of the wind in my ear: I’ve got you. But my wings are already broken, I am beyond rescue.