They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.
There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.
It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don’t care.
That’s my favorite thing about him. I like to lie next to him when it’s late, dark, and so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. It’s times like that when I’m sure that I’m in love.
It’s like high school holds two different worlds, revolving around each other an never touching; the haves and the have-nots. I guess it’s a good thing. High school is supposed to prepare you for the real world, after all.
Juliet!? I whip around but not quickly enough. She’s swallowed by the crowd, the gap that allowed her to break for the door closing just as quickly as it opened, a shifting Tetris pattern of bodies...
The walls are covered -crammed- with writing. No. Not writing. They are covered with a single four-letter word that has been inscribed over and over, on every available surface. Love.
I get that rush that comes when you know you’re doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
Love is the only thing in the world worth having. You must never loose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.
This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot. It is hard and deep and angular, a system of blockades. It is everything and total. Hatred is a high tower. In the Wilds, I start to build, and to climb.
Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.
We’ll walk together holding hands, and kiss in broad daylight, and love each other as much as we want to, and no one will ever try to keep up apart.
Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.
It strikes me how strange people are. You can see them every day, you can think you know them and then you found out you hardly know them at all.
Popularity’s a weird thing. You can’t really define it, and it’s not cool to talk about, but you know it when you see it. Like a lazy eye, or porn.
What glitters may not be gold; and even wolves may smile; and fools will be led by promises to their deaths.
For the first time in my life I’ve done something for me and by choice and not because somebody told me it was good or bad.
He’s stuck with me and I’m stuck with him. We’re stuck. That’s what growing up is all about, I guess.