People seldom realize that they tell lies with their lips and truths with their eyes all the time.
I’ve come to believe that the most dangerous man in the world is the one who feels no remorse. The one who never apologizes and therefore seeks no forgiveness. Because in the end it is our emotions that make us week, not our actions.
Love is a heartless bastard.
I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard I’ve fallen for her. And I’ve fallen. So hard. I’ve hit the ground.
I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.
Hate looks like everybody else until it smiles.
And if you insist on continuing to make assumptions about my character, I’ll advise you only this: assume you will always be wrong.
Can you hear my heart? I want to ask him. I want you to make a list of all your favorite things, and I want to be on it.
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.