Everything was chocolate ice cream and kisses and wind.
This was not a fearie tale. This was not the movies. This was life. It hurt more. It was excruciating. It was excruciatingly beautiful.
But be careful; sand is already broken but glass breaks. The shoes are for dancing, not running away.
You must reach inside yourselves where I live like a story, not old, not young laughing at my own sorrow, weeping pearls at weddings, wielding a torch to melt sand into something clear and bright.
I wanted him to hold me, to take care of me. To make the pain dissolve away. I know that this was part of what had ruined everything but I wanted it once more anyway.
No matter where I am, I am always loving you.
I dreamed you were standing in this dark place and you touched these dead flowers and they lit up like they were electric or something. Electric lilies. Lighting up the Valley.
If you want to find the trail, if you want to find yourself, you must explore your dreams alone. You must grow at a slow pace in a dark cocoon of loneliness so you can fly like wind, like wings, when you awaken.
Tinys do not deserve safety. If they are to prove themselves, they must suffer and die or suffer and survive.
You are in my blood. I cant help it. We can’t be anywhere except together.
If Death is your father, you don’t ever have to worry about what part of his body the disease will strike next. If Death is your lover, you don’t have to be afraid that he will ever leave you.
She pushed the gardener away and called for them. In her sleep she had seen love. It was poisoning. It was possessing. Devouring. Or it was seven pairs of boots climbing up the stairs to find her.
Flowers are reincarnation. They come out of the earth of our ashes. Nothing else looks so soul-like.
I dreamed of being a part of the stories – even terrifying one, even horror stories – because at least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
She had changed him. The ice was in his eyes and in his heart, like he had predicted with that song, but now they were deep embedded there, all the pain of the world. Not pain to make you feel for somebody else but pain to make you stop feeling.
It’s important to tell your story. It’s important to listen.
My mother said, “kiss him, darling, it’s easy so natural” and I thought to myself, not with lips of stone, dear mother, not with lips of stone.
What happens to the rest of something when you smash its heart?
She wished she had a little yellow house of her own, with a flower box full of real flowers and herbs – pansies and rosemary – and a sweet lover who would swing dance with her in the evenings and cook pasta and read poetry aloud.
Besides, secretly, without knowing it herself, she had been waiting for a Beast to go to.