Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins.
She would buy magic every day of the week. Love me, that face said. I’m so lonely, so desperate. I’ll give you whatever you want.
Reading LOVE JUNKIE is like watching a sleepwalker taking a stroll on a freeway. All you can do is pray. Gorgeously written, piercingly honest.
I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
It wasn’t awful to be dead. The stillness would almost be a relief. She wouldn’t want pain, she wouldn’t want to be wounded or mutilated. She could never shoot herself or jump off a building. But being dead wasn’t unthinkable.
She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.
How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
She was starting to think there might be such a thing as karma – that repetition – maybe you lived through the same thing over and over until you stopped caring. Maybe eventually it got less intense, until it was just nothing.
Kindness was the last thing she needed. She had to stay in the icy place, the numb place, and their warmth threatened to melt her just when she needed the cold.
Darkness coiled between what he wanted them to believe and the self he despised. It only made him more alone. How could you save someone when he didn’t let you kno him? What a waste. The beauty he murdered in this place. He could never see what he had, only what he failed to achieve.
Death like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear. She put her own two fingers in her mouth. Im so sorry. And pulled the trigger.
Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
Aquamarines grew with emeralds, Claire told me. But emeralds were fragile and always broke into smaller pieces, while aquamarines were stronger, grew in huge crystals without any trouble, so they weren’t worth as much. It was the emerald that didn’t break that was the really valuable thing.
You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
Their love as a dragonfly, skimming over echo park, stoppin to visit the lotus. Eating dreams and drinking blue sky.
These people picked you up and played with you and then left you lying in the rain.
What was the point in such loneliness among people. At least if you were by yourself, you had a good reason to be lonely.
Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.