Raven jerks and stiffens. For a second, I think she is only surprised: Her mouth goes round, her eyes wide. Then she begins teetering backward, and I know that she is dead. Falling, falling, falling . . .
This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.
The Wilds aren't safe anymore.
And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.” I’m gasping, feeling as though I am about to drown; I’m reaching for him blindly, grabbing at his collar.
Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
It's amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me - such bullshit.
My former people were not totally wrong. Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison. And if Alex no longer loves me, I can’t bear to think that he might love somebody else.
It's the way he says my name: like music.
Let me tell you something about dying: it's not as bad as they says. it's the coming-back-to-life part that hurts.
But if you do believe, then you already know all about magic.
Here's another thing to remember: hope keeps you alive. Even when you're dead, it's the only thing that keeps you alive.
And I guess that's when it starts to hit me: the whole point is, you do what you can.
It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
I'm starved for different light, a different sun,different sky.
So far I've seen the life studies packet used as (1) an umbrella, (2) a makeshift towel, (3) a pillow, and now this. I have never actually seen anyone study with it, which either means that everyone who graduates from Thomas Jefferson will be totally unprepared for life or that certain things can't be learned in bullet-point format.
A room full of words that are nearly the truth but not quite, each note fluttering off the steam of its rose like a broken butterfly wing.
Things That Don't Matter When You've Lived the Same Day Six Times and Died on at Least Two of Them: Lunch meats and their relative coolness.
Eventually she came. She appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans. After that, I couldn't think about anything else. The mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. The way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. Her eyes, deep as a promise. Her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button. I nearly went crazy.
like I am Alice in the Wonderland and have gotten too big for the room.
Why couldn't you let me have it? Why did you have to take it? Why did you always take everything?
You see, we didn't know.
As we're standing there I realize we're almost exactly the same height. We must look like the dark and light side of an Oreo cookie, and I think how just as easily it could have been the other way around. She could be blocking my path; I could be trying to slip around her into the dark.
It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.
That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.
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