But out in the freezing cold, with the blizzard swirling around me, and my kidnapper’s liquid eyes probing my face, I can’t remember.
All right, baby. I’m going to go cook some fish I caught with my own hands while you touch your socks.
My heart is still broken. I’m trying to figure out how to live without what I really want. That includes letting go of old dreams and making some new ones.
You want to be a poet and you’re not. By the time you realize you’re not doomed, your life is going to be over and you’ll never have taken any risks.
Her parties are always the best. She gets the top shelf liquor and plays only eighties music, which is fine by me. Dancing drunk to the eighties is life. But, more than that, she makes a point of inviting handsome men as an incentive for her girlfriends to attend. I’d be fine with just the expensive booze, but I suppose the scenery is a nice plus.
It was the truth! For the truth to make a difference, it needs to be said by one person at a time, until there’s a noise loud enough to make a difference.
Maybe life is about living with the hauntings.
Hate is such a prodigious feeling. It’s hot and oppressive like fire. It starts by burning through your God-given reason until there is nothing left of it but a mound of ash. It moves on to your humanity next, hot tongues flicking across the few remaining threads of innocence until they melt into each other and morph into something ugly. Then, in the rubble of what you were, hate plants a seed of bitterness.
Men don’t cheat because they’re not in love, they cheat because they don’t feel loved.
They want to be worshipped. They want a woman who thinks they’re the greatest, strongest, most virile.
I did not expect him to give up his music for me, just as much as I did not expect me.
In its place is a framed print of a pressed poppy. It depresses me. Pressed flowers are an attempt to hold on to something that was once alive. They’re desperate and lonely.
He runs his hand over his face, and suddenly the cocky joker is gone, and I can see all of his shadows.
The minute I started freely loving Nick he left me.
What does it feel like? I ask myself. Like cold air in your lungs after too much warm air. Maybe this is how you feel when you find your place in the world.
What I felt for you was love. The poets, the philosophers – they say things about perfect love. How it heals, how it behaves, how it braves all things. But they’re idealizing it. Best-case scenario: love saves the day. But I was the worst-case scenario. Love is sometimes powerful enough to self-destruct. Because when an imperfect person wields the most powerful weapon in the universe, they’re bound to trip over their own feet.
All he’s concerned about is showing me what I don’t know, not calling attention to that fact that I don’t know it.
An invisible hand cracks open my jaw and pours fear down my throat. I choke on it.
Once you lost your faith, it was gone.
We busy ourselves trying not to be lonely, trying to find purpose in careers, and lovers, and children, but at any moment, those things we work so hard to possess could be taken from us. I feel better knowing I’m not alone, that the whole world is as fragile and lonely as I am.