My heart is a cold, abandoned house. Its windows boarded, its books gathering dust. I visit it from time to time to know it's still there in need of repair if I can manage it. Far away things always want attention. But the house sits quietly in the cold Waiting. When I come by to dust the books and wipe the windows and read a few pages by a fire kindled with forgotten scraps, I'm warm again. I'm home. It would be nice, I think, if I lived here. If I cleaned and cleaned, I could even have guests. They could even stay a while. I would feed them from the love grown in the garden, baked in the kitchen, of my bright little home. Those are dreams, I tell myself. The task is too great. And I'm needed elsewhere. Always. So I cherish the warm fires of my visits Because it may be a cold abandoned house But it is mine.

the bad part about losing weight is feeling colder.

A deficit of love will result in destructive tendencies Note to self, don’t buy pressure cookers from macy’s I don’t need a relationship to make me happy I just need it not to make me unhappy.

I can't have fun with people who expect me to be the responsible one.

Some feelings you just want to claw out of you.

I'm only interested in practicality if it helps me reach my ideals.

Why girls like rules. They protect us. Lack of order is not a friend of the weak.