What about those Promises of yours to never leave me? she asked, stammering too much this time. His cruel smirk was as gut-wrenching as his words— Promises are meant to be broken, sweetheart.

Where the cheerful childrenof unwritten poems, play all around, you will find me there.

Only to close these eyesto sleep in the lap of loveand stay there forever.

From all my dreams where you felt everlastingto all my clothes your words used to wear, to the old end, to the new beginning, you have lost me everywhere.

Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

The way your curious eyes were chasing mine when I stood in front of you, I knew I had known these eyes before.

I feel the pain—everywhere.

I threw myself so far in your depth that it took me a month to come out and notice I was actually sitting in my room. Nowhere else. Not with you.

Someday, even my existence would be felt.

Do you love me enough that I am allowedto be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

But if ever I try to mend, some other bodies would instantly break, would instantly be fragments.

if they put an iron circle around your neck I will bite it away

I sometimes think it is because they are so bad at expressing themselves verbally that writers take to pen and paper in the first place

A lit candle glowsIlluminating the space in which it standsJesus is the LightShining on the inside Radiating on the outsideA light that never goes dimIs that Light that comes from within

Half hating, half loving, this free time between writing books.

Don't take the wrong side of an argument just because your opponent has taken the right side.

The difference between a grave and a rut are the dimensions.

Individual capitalists, in short, behave in such a way as to threaten the conditions that permit the reproduction of the capitalist class.

Giving is better than receiving because giving starts the receiving process.

The actual atoms and molecules that make up my brain and body today are not the same ones that I was born with on September 8, 1954, a half-century ago this month.

If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than it was because he was he, and I was I.