I love walking into a bookstore. It’s like all my friends are sitting on shelves, waving their pages at me.
It’s just a whisper of a kiss but something collapses in my skull. It’s a feather-light brush of his mouth against my skin in a place I can’t quite see. It’s my mind speaking in a thousand different languages I don’t understand.
I am nothing more than the consequence of catastrophe.
Tattoos, for example, are very hard to forget. I think there’s something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it necessary to etch ink into our skins. It reminds us that we’ve been marked by the world, that we’re still alive. That we’ll never forget.
Hope in this world bleeds out of the barrel of a gun.
His eyes are two buckets of rainwater: deep, fresh, clear. Hurt.
But I’m shocked by the tenderness in his voice. The sincerity with which he wants to know. He’s like a feral dog, crazed and wild, thirsty for chaos, simultaneously aching for recognition and acceptance. Love.
I promise myself then, in that moment, that I will hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain and torture and suffering is gone, until he’s given a chance to live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply ever again.
Sometimes a book isn’t a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. Sometimes it’s the only story you knew how to tell.
Nothing in this life will ever make sense to me but I can’t help but try to collect the change and hope it’s enough to pay for our mistakes.
Truth is a jealous, vicious mistress that never, ever sleeps.
I’m too poor to afford the luxury of hysteria right now.
I want to trust but it scares the skin off my bones.
You know, you have a really strange way of telling me you’re attracted to me.
My mind is a warehouse of carefully organized human emotions. I lock away the things that do not serve me.
Watching her talk to someone else made me crazy. I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that she might be the only person in the world I could really care about.
Because I want her. Now. Here. Everywhere. I want nothing between us. I want her clothes off and the lights on and I want to study her. I want to unzip her out of this dress and take my time with every inch of her.
My face is in his hands and my lips are at his lips and he’s kissing me and I’m oxygen and he’s dying to breathe.
Torture is not torture when there’s any hope of relief.
A handful of letters doesn’t always make a word, love.