I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

I cut myself because you wouldn't let me cry.I cried because you wouldn't let me speak.I spoke because you wouldn't let me shine.I shone because I thought you loved me...

My reasons to liveWere my reasons to dieBut at least they were mineNow I've freedom unboundCut the laces of life

You're so easy to read but the book is boring me.

You know the games I play And the words I say When I want my own way You know the lies I tell When you've gone through hell And I say I can't stay You know how hard it can be To keep believing in me When everything and everyone Becomes my enemy and when There's nothing more you can do I'm gonna blame it on you It's not the way I want to be I only hope that in the end you will see It's the Opheliac in me

Women who focus on style over substance usually find themselves in a big fucking hole, with other men who want to fuck the hole. Oh so smooth, and none sophistacted. Because, you know, how sophisticated can hole-fucking really be

It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill.

It is not seen as insane when a fighter, under an attack that will inevitable lead to his death, chooses to take his own life first. In fact, this act has been encouraged for centuries, and is accepted even now as an honorable reason to do the deed. How is it any different when you are under attack by your own mind?

It is this, not the spirits, that frightens us; shall we never be free, even after we die?

History written in pencil is easily erased, but crayon is forever.

You," he said, "are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.

Perfume was first created to mask the stench of foul and offensive odors...Spices and bold flavorings were created to mask the taste of putrid and rotting meat...What then was music created for?Was it to drown out the voices of others, or the voices within ourselves?I think I know.

Studies show:Intelligent girls are more depressedBecause they knowWhat the world is really likeDon't think for a beat it makes it betterWhen you sit her down and tell herEverything gonna be all rightShe knows in society she either isA devil or an angel with no in betweenShe speaks in the third personSo she can forget that she's me

Why can I never go back to bed? Who's is the voice ringing in my head? Where is the sense in these desperate dreams? Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?

He cried when I left, which I find to be standard male behavior.

DeathWish: You spent some time working with Courtney Love and Billy Corgan on a creative level, how did this experience help your growth as an artist?EA: It didn't -- it stunted it entirely. I gave up over a year of my life and career helping Billy with his flop of an album and designing and building all of the costumes for his music video. With Courtney, we were friends, but I spent years working to record and promote her flop of an album only to find that my value increased every time I peed in an orange juice bottle so that she could fake her way through a drug test. Not exactly a haven for artistic growth.

Revenge itself may indeed be the best revenge, but slaying one's enemy does not give back what they stole.

I feel as though, if I were to extend my hand just a little toward the pool where the ideas ferment, I could grab at the idea and pull it out of the pool and onto the floor where ideas must stand before the jury of the brain. There, it must present itself, still from the pool, and a bit shivery because new ideas are not given a towel to dry off with, towels being reserved for proven theories; new ideas are simply pulled and stood up, and asked to explain themselves - not a very pleasant thing really, which is why so many people go into the room where the pool is. The exercise is exhausting not to mention a bit difficult to watch, if you are at all a sympathetic creature. What was my idea, anyways?

Nothing in my life has ever made me want to commit suicide more than people's reaction to my trying to commit suicide.

What's the big fucking deal? Lots of amazing people have committed suicide, and they turned out alright.

We will paste upon the curled pages wordsLike charming and romantic and sentimentalForgetting that charming is witchcraftRomantic is loveAnd sentiment is what makes us human

Thank you.It used to be knee length, but then I discovered that when I get angry I like to cut things.I'm not allowed to have scissors any more.It's still pretty lengthy, but I've been threatening to shave half of it for the past week and nobody seems to believe me...I do it all myself though because I scream when I'm touched and that scares people.

There is no such thing as justice, all the best that we can hope for is revenge.

I still own my heart, which I know because it hurts so much.

Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops.

Some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon 'em.

Your stockings prove your virtues.Be certain they are clean and free of tears.

Oh, and I certainly don't suffer from schizophrenia. I quite enjoy it. And so do I.

Did you know sometimes it frightens me--when you say my name and I can't see you?will you ever learn to materialize before you speak?impetuous boy, if that's what you really are.how many centuries since you've climbed a balconyor do you do this every night with someone else?you tell me that you'll never leaveand I am almost afraid to believe it.why is it me you've chosen to follow?did you like the way I look when I am sleeping?was my hair more fun to tangle?are my dreams more entertaining?do you laugh when I'm complaining that I'm all alone?where were you when I searched the seafor a friend to talk to me?in a year where will you be?is it enough for you to steal into my mindfilling up my page with music written in my handyou know I'll take the credit for I must have made you come to me somehow.but please try to close the curtains when you leave at night,or I'll have to find someone to stay and warm me.will you always attend my midnight tea parties--as long as I set it at your place?if one day your sugar sits untouchedwill you have gone forever?would you miss me in a thousand years--when you will dry another's tears?but you say you'll never leave meand I wonder if you'll have the decencyto pass through my wall to the next roomwhile I dress for dinnerbut when I'm stuck in conversationwith stuffed shirts whose adorationhurts my ears, where are you then?can't you cut in when I dance with other men?it's too late not to interfere with my lifeyou've already made me a most unsuitable wifefor any man who wants to be the first his bride has slept withand you can't just fly into people's bedroomsthen expect them to calmly wave goodbyeyou've changed the course of historyand didn't even trywhere are you now--standing behind me,taking my hand?come and remind mewho you arehave you traveled farare you made of stardust tooare the angels after youtell me what I am to dobut until then I'll save your side of the bedjust come and sing me to sleep

I love to write and to get to know the people who are listening.

I can explain myself: If you want to be safe, walk in the middle of the street. I’m not joking. You’ve been told to look both ways before crossing the street, and the sidewalk is your friend, right? Wrong. I’ve spent years walking sidewalks at night. I’ve looked around me when it was dark, when there were men following me, creeping out of alleyways, attempting to goad me into speaking to them and shouting obscenities at me when I wouldn’t, and I suddenly realised that the only place left to go was the middle of street. But why would I risk it? Because the odds are in my favour. In the States, someone is killed in a car accident on average every 12.5 minutes, while someone is raped on average every 2.5 minutes. Even when factoring in that, one, I am generously including ALL car-related accidents and not just those involving accidents, and two, that the vast majorities of rapes still go unreported […] And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.

I smile to myself knowing that they may be dead.

Hey, look at me! Look at me! Look at me! And...look at me. Will he think I'm sexy enough? Will he find me wholesome enough? Am I fuckable? Is he allergic to feathers?!