Best 49 quotes of Heather Angelika Dooley on MyQuotes

A good writer never tells your secrets, they tell their own. They sacrifice themselves and surrender you.

Don't keep coloring in their lines waiting for them to sign on the dotted... for you will become... ...overdrawn.

Don't think twice; once is enough. If you have to think again, it will always be a second thought.

Every ending is always a beginning. Without endings, there would be no beginnings. I don't know about you, but you can't begin to live without knowing how to end... well.

Every time you lie to me, I still know your truth. Every time you tell me you're not allowed to love me anymore, I can still hear the gospel behind your tongue. And, that is not my silent desperation; that is your desperate silence.

For as long as I shall live, I look forward to never growing old with you.

For those that say it is better to sleep when you're dead... They mustn't dream like me, for there's no sleep in my asleep; my slumber's the liveliest place to ever be!

He didn't see women as people; he saw them as trophies, and that is precisely why he never won me.

He helped me clean out my head in time for floweret sunshine, while I raked dead leaves from underneath the bed of my nails that were waiting to be organized in diaries. As the 'Forbidding Numb' piled up, he laundered my abandoned hope clean. All that I could smell on my hands were the roots of the root words I had diluted with extra letters and slushiness. There isn't a corner that we missed; and, in no time at all, I will forget the wretchedness of this winter. Soon, I will only smell peonies and calla lilies, fresh cotton sheets, and maybe—just maybe— the paperless books that I have written being pressed like petals; yet, no longer incinerators burning perished wood that already pushed up daisies right when autumn left its leaves behind me.

He taught me what true love is: helping each other breathe a little easier— smooth and steady— instead of dying a little every day, choking on being loved as someone's vice.

His hot and bothered body of sweat felt refreshing against my flesh, like the water beads on a frosty Mason jar of lemonade the summer of my first blush with self-rule and release, even though it was February.

His mind had patterns, patterns that made puzzles, and puzzles that became mazes. Those mazes had color and became labyrinths— labyrinths that went crazy like jungles— and all he could trust me with was letting my fingers get lost in his curls. I played in there, for years trapped in his hair (that overthought and provoked lair)— the only thing between my thoughts and his: the air. But, he was smart not to trust me enough. He knew. The open air looked at him with slight eyes, issued him binds of lies, like library cards ...full of fiction. And I knew this, so how could I forget? Along the way, I turned into every other female he ever loved. It was his destiny that gave me permission to pull his hair again.

I can hear the moths crackling and burning on the bulb, I see myself as one of them, flitting around this porch light. I can imagine me bewitched by the wink and sparkle, but I couldn't imagine myself taking up camp here, forever. I am suddenly abundantly aware that this is not even summer yet. This is just a porch with a jerrybuilt swing and creaky planked floors, a frayed recliner, and splays of gray hairs just (now) taking root. I remember that first summer when we strung sprinklers like toy lanterns...

I forgot my key. The question is: who do I call now? Landlords and locksmiths have become more loyal than you when you're the only other person that I gave a copy to in these places that I can only seem to rent.

If you're going to force me out, someone else will find their way in. That is key.

I have always kept my heart prisoner behind the bars of my rib cage where it is in a 30" x 26" cell while the rest of the world lives well, wild and free to let their hearts weather against the harsh conditions, going numb to the cold, and becoming indifferent to the constant climate change that happens with time and age. My heart has never been that exposed; I have not let it be. Every time my heart is up and ready for release, I let it out into the world only briefly— try to get it back into civilian life— but it ends up right back in the pen, because it is not true that I have ever let it wear on my sleeve... ...it's too damn good for that.

I have to know if you'll read this the same way that I wrote it, because if you can't, then you're nothing more than a rough draft that I don't care to edit.

I'll only ask you once to hold my hand in this life. Otherwise, I already know it does just fine holding my other one.

I remember when all of my dreams were in rainbow. Now, everything I do I have to Technicolor because it's all become so black and white... so subtle hues, no longer Prismacolor me and you. I sharpen those pencils, but they still come up dull. I shade and shade and shade, but it all comes up a shady review. I miss the rainbow when my dreams were caught all throughout the day; and not just late at night, when I couldn't sleep because everything was dark, and too steep to climb, and only in rhyme because I have not become THAT gray poet.

I save a piece of paper that has the indentation of your name on it— your signature... ...move. I knew that I shouldn't have let you push down so hard. Your memory left a mark on so many pages after, if you couldn't tell, as I publish again to press on....

I slept like a rock Coming through my window Woke up with new light

I stopped telling you all of my secrets when you became my biggest one.

It might be true that I am a lightweight when it comes to falling in love, heavy.

It's all a conundrum, isn't it— forgetting the mixed tape in the car... feeling forgotten when... so many people are thinking of us? Drinking when we should be eating... sleeping when we should be making love... thanking God above when we don't have enough? Each day is a mad rush to something irrelevant. We measure our pricelessness by our successes, which... still equals money. Life goes by so quick when each day is a mad rush to slow motion. We eat fast food so that we can go to bed on time, but, trust me, everyone wakes up too late.

It's been nice having your van in my driveway. Maybe for just two weeks before you go, I can have the vision come untrue, long enough to forget when I thought I was going to have your van in my driveway every morning, and your sleepy noises the first thing that I heard in a day, as you whispered how you couldn't stay, but "wished you could," in independence's place. I told you, "I never revise a poem. Make sure, in your moment of self-defeat, that you are sure, because once I hit 'save', your decision will never delete.

It takes a lot for me to close a door, but when I do, I slam it.

I've always kept one emotional suitcase packed. With you, I live out of one, every day, and I keep a cab on speed dial.

I've lost touch with myself. It seems like she and I have not touched base for ages, I can't remember the last time I talked to her, honest to God. She's always been my best friend—my vicarious better half. It's such a shame, really... I wish I knew what she was up to these days. I really, REALLY do. It's not as though you can close a bond like ours when the room gets too messy; you can't just shut the door. It's common knowledge they'll only open a window ...and sneak out. I don't know where she is now. She could be on a train to the other coast, for all I know. I quit listening to her wishes a long time ago. Shame on me.

I will always remember the integer that opened me up; but it is clear to me that you always forget the final unit, because that's easier than finding out what is left inside when you can't Master Lock me. Go ahead... forget the combination. I'm finally okay with admitting that we were always at a deadlock anyway.

Little girls start changing their life as they get older. Their rhythm changes... Their stories, joys, tickles, and merriment do not change; they do. Their laughter becomes about chagrin, apology, and cordiality. It becomes a nervous laughter. It stops coming from a place of pure abandonment anymore; it comes from a place of abandoning their pure abandonment. They forget how to laugh from the bellies of their being.

Mother Teresa said, "To keep a lamp burning we have to keep oil in it." Now, I am no Mother Teresa, but... I am not even dealing oil because when you mix it with water, well, you know... We all know: I love with kerosene.

Once upon a time ago, you loved me in Photoshop. When I was monochromatic, you gave me texture. You went through my layer mask and hit......'Reveal All'. I remember when you stared at me like I was saturated; but, sometimes I don't remember that once upon a time ago without seeing your background image losing its magic lens.

People promise each other the world until they are not given it. We give until we no longer receive something of equal or greater value. Life and love is nothing more than re-gifting. When we don't like what we get, we save it for someone else, and hope, with all of our hearts, the the next package is better.

So many things in this life that you would consider trash are my personal diplomas, my favored scars, my most priceless junkyard. So many things that meant nothing to you are the encyclopedias to my whole, are the ticket fares to my soul, are the things that you repoed when I caught you dressed in black... wearing the things you've stolen, filling pockets of me, swollen.

Sometimes it's the distance between us that keeps us close.

Sometimes the loneliest place you will ever be is in bed beside someone you cannot reach. There is no love in our love anymore.

The current's run is too wild, and we created it. A mermaid and mariner have so much romanticism, but too different of backgrounds. One breathes on grounded land, and one breathes above and below—fluidly. This is how she always gets stuck in their nets. They both try for the sake of fascination, but unlike the mermaid's lungs, fascination runs dry. So, they wave at the shoreline and go back to being whoever they were: half humans without each other.

The spiking temps spiked a fever for cool commons, so I made a plate of tapenade, bruschetta, and prosciutto, with orange creamsicle martinis flowing like a Zen fountain. It was hard for me to believe that I woke up that morning fighting back tears for no reason and all kinds of reasons. It is still... hard for me to believe that you have become no reason, at all.

Things always show up when they don't arrive.

This bitterly cold weather is a shift from an even colder half of year. It's as if we're back to some sort of embryonic development that brought us to where we started: an inertia of life— changing positions like atoms within a molecule— the cruel, cruel curse of the winter sunset... a reminder that natural light comes and goes as it damn well pleases.

This is where I long to get home to after vacation. This is where I feel comfy in my pajamas. This is where, no matter where I go, my bed is here and none is better than my own. When I think about you, you can never be him... When once upon a time ago, I never thought there WAS a him that could ever be you.

Today I hate myself for loving you, and I hate myself for not being strong enough to love you back... when I know broken boys like you need me, too.

Tornadoes devastate and leave a mess behind, just like your ending, so the instant that 'Psychlone' sees you rebuilding, she's going to spin completely out of control, every time. You can't get sucked into the same vortex twice if you eject the monster from being it's own victim; but until then, I'd pull in your rocking chairs, lock down your trash cans and recycling bins, and take your potted azaleas inside... ... if I were you.

We don't have a choice of whom we fall in love with. We don't have a choice of whom we fall out of love with. We only have a choice to stay or leave— it's a set menu at a fixed price. But, what if we don't like either of our options?

We forget to thank those that hurt us the most.

When tongues lack bravery and hearts protect their own, eyes always tell the truth.

When you fall in love for the last time, it becomes the first.

You can keep moving your blowup mattress around in the night where the shadows keep you pretty, and cover your face, so that no one can see that you have a home in me that you won't admit you'll never and always be: the beach bum of my heart.

Your layered, sweater-y, thickset hug around me—I dared to dream of your bare, balmy, broken-down skin tangled in mine. It was a twist of artless fate in my mind. I watched you pull away... on your "Naked" bike. I was covered in a trench coat, but more than naked enough for the both of us....