I don’t know why I can’t let the insults go, but I can’t. I’m the product of every hurt that’s ever been laid on me.
But I’m no hero. I had to keep my dirty little secret. The worst sin I committed was holding it in; letting the secret blacken me.
I never defended myself. Not once. I never said, “Excuse me? What gives you the right to insult and demean me?” I let them steal my dignity.
Take it as a token. Because tomorrow when I go, I want you to believe friends are possible.
This is my vision-what I imagine I’ll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.
You will break God’s heart if you throw His gift away.” God has a heart? That’s news to me.
She was in me, in my blood, invading every cell in my body. She was the one I wanted. She was the one I saw, felt, desired. This was wrong. He was wrong. It was all so wrong.
I knew if I gave into it, I’d have to surrender myself completely. I’d lose all control. Everything I knew, everything I was, the walls I’d built up to protect myself all these years would come crashing down. I might get lost in the rubble. Yet, she made me feel alive in a way I’d only ever imagined I could feel. Bells, whistles, music.
She smiled. “You did. And my gaydar never lies. Although later, I thought you might be bi.” No, I wasn’t bi. I was sure of that now. The depth of desire – it was unbelievable. That, and the certainty of this being right. Being me.
If we’d found each other, though, the tormented, the weak and powerless, we couldn’t bound together. What made me weak was the sense that I was alone. But maybe I wasn’t alone. All the people on Through-the-Light, where were they? Living in dark space, the gray place. If we could’ve found each other sooner, would it have changed the outcome?
He makes me feel all jiggly inside. STOP FEELING. Stop caring.
When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a starving, stunted bird who never grew wings and lost all reason sing.
When you discover the joy of reading, your mind opens to a world of wondrous discoveries and infinite possibilities.
The stone bench is gray. The grass is gray. My life is dirty gray.
Most of all I’m mad at Swanee for dying and taking from me the most precious thing I ever owned. I didn’t own her, but she was mine. Mine, Liana. Do you hear me?
That’s why they call it a dream, Tone. Because it’ll never be a reality.
Flush me down the toilet. Human waste.
Tus fracasos y tus culpas. Se quedan contigo. Se aglomeran y afean, crecen cancerosos dentro de ti y te dan ganas de morir.
Suicide is not the answer.″ They don’t know the question.
Cece was still in bed when I arrived. Her father bellowed up the stairs, “Cece!” then turned to me and said, “It takes divine intervention to get her up before noon.