Softly, I write.

For some reason, I have always been afraid of it.

(And it’s not like they’ll ever be able to read this.)

I think I have always loved things a little too deeply.

They say time moves forward.

One of my favorite forms of intimacy has always been asking questions, not to pry, but to understand the architecture of someone’s inner world.

If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful?

(To live is to suffer.

(Just Because You Are) On protecting your peace — and knowing the difference between compassion and drowning alongside someone.

(Right before my eyes—and I’m here for it.)

I used to be baffled by how some people struggle with kindness, as if it's a costly gesture.