The first one, we’ll name Blue.
We’ll go.” Her voice is surprisingly deep and forceful. Set in her sunken, shipwreck face, her eyes burn like two smoldering coals. “We’ll fight.
The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.
It won't matter if nobody ever thinks I'm pretty (although sometimes I wish, just for a second, that somebody would)
Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
I don't know how i stay on my feet, why i don;t just shatter into dust right there, why my heart keeps beating when i want it so badly to stop
The house, the pond, the tree-it was all both overwhelmingly familiar and different from what she remembered-smaller and shabbier, somehow. It was like waking up to find that your reflection in the mirror had aged overnight, or had sprouted a new mole: You were forced to admit that things changed, whether you gave them permission to or not.
You can build walls all the way to the sky and I will find a way to fly above them.
No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.
For all the people who have infected me with amor deliria nervosa in the past - you know who you are. For the people who will infect me in the future - I can't wait to see who you'll be. And in both cases: Thank you.
Despite the fact that Raven and Tack are often fighting, it's impossible to imagine one without the other. They are like two plants that have grown around each other - they strangle and squeeze and support at the same time.
Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.
Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose, either. If we didn't get out hearts stomped on, shattered; if we didn't have to patch and repatch it until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together by who knows what
And even though I'm standing in the middle of the biggest crowd I've ever seen in my life, I suddenly feel very alone.
That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.
You can try to pin me down with a hundred thousand arms, but I will find a way to resist
For a moment, my heart aches for him. I should never have asked him to join me here; I should never have asked him to cross.
What glitters may not be gold; and even wolves may smile; and fools will be led by promises to their deaths.
Is this freedom? Is it happiness? I don't know. I don't care anymore. It is different--it is being alive.
And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets; their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us.
It's amazing how close I have been, all this time, to my old life. And yet the distance that divides me from it is vast.
Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
When I’m running, there’s always this split second when the pain is ripping through me and I can hardly breathe and all I see is color and blur—and in that split second, right as the pain crests, and becomes too much, and there’s a whiteness going through me, I see something to my left, a flicker of color […]—and I know then, too, that if I only turn my head he’ll be there, laughing, watching me, and holding out his arms. I don’t ever turn my head to look, of course. But one day I will. One day I will, and he’ll be back, and everything will be okay. And until then: I run.
The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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