It doesn’t make sense to call ourselves ugly, because we don’t really see ourselves. We don’t watch ourselves sleeping in bed, curled up and silent with chests rising and falling with our own rhythm. We don’t see ourselves reading a book, eyes fluttering and glowing. You don’t see yourself looking at someone with love and care inside your heart. There’s no mirror in your way when you’re laughing and smiling and happiness is leaking out of you. You would know exactly how bright and beautiful you are if you saw yourself in the moments where you are truly yourself.

I open your legs with my knee so I don’t have to stain my hands on your light. You are burning, luminescent, and I am afraid that if I touch you too deeply you will devour me as the moon devours the sky.

I’m so good at beginnings, but in the end I always seem to destroy everything, including myself.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.

I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore.

those who escape hell
however
never talk about
it
and nothing much
bothers them
after
that.

Feel the fear and do it anyway.