Everything ends, people move on, they don't look back. It's how they should be.
There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.
Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.
I need him to know that I came for him. I need him to know that somehow, at some point in the tunnels, I began to love him.
What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures.
Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.
Everything looks stark and vivid and frozen, as though drawn precisely and outlined in ink - parents' smiles frozen, camera flashes blinding, mouths open and white teeth glinstening, dark glossy hair and deep blue sky and unrelenting light, everyone drowning in light - everything so clear and perfect I'm sure it must already be a memory, or a dream.
We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
It is a ruined-world, a nonsense-place.
I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.
Maybe this is the secret to talking to boys--maybe you just have to be angry all the time.
And I have Julian. I found him, and he followed me. I reach out in the half dark, wordlessly, and find his hands. We interlace our fingers, and though he doesn't say anything either, I can feel the warmth and energy passing between us, a soundless dialogue. Thank you, he is saying, and I am saying, I am so happy, I am so happy, I needed you to be safe.
It's like there's a filter set up in my brain, except instead of making things better, it twists everything around so what comes out of my mouth is totally wrong, totally different from what I was thinking.
It's the rule of the wilds. You must be bigger, and stronger, and tougher. A coldness radiates through me, a solid wall that is growing, piece by piece, in my chest. He doesn't love me. He never loved me. It was all a lie. "The old Lena is dead." I say, and then push past him. Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
There are more of us than you think.
it's weird how much people change. for example, when i was a kid i loved all of these things..and over time all of them just fell away, one after another, replaced by friends and IMing and cell phones and boys and clothes. it's kind of sad, if you think about it. like there's no continuity in people at all. like something ruptures when you hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever the age is when you're no longer a kid but a "young adult," and after that you're a totally different person. maybe even a less happy person. maybe even a worse one.
Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. p. 450
The Story of Solomon is the only way I know how to explain. And then, in smaller letters: Forgive me.
Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
"Kent?" I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. "Yeah?" "Promise you'll stay here with me?" I say. "I promise," he whispers.
I'm not scared, if that's what you're wondering. The moment of death is full of sound and warmth and light shooting away, arcing up and up and up, and if singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing... The rest you have to find out for yourself.
i feel like a curtain has dropped away and i'm seeing people for who they really are, different, and sharp, and unknowable.
If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.
Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.
I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.
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