The months fall to shards at my feet.
I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.
She’s a commodity in a sea of broken girls.
It isn’t a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.
There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.
I nod like I'm not at all unnerved by this new cold side to him. Not cruel like his father. Not warm like the husband who sought me out on quiet nights. Something in between. This Linden has never woven his fingers through mine, never chosen me from a line of weary Gathered girls, never said he loved me in a myriad of coloured lights. We are nothing to each other.
I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that." "Look what it got you," I say. "Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
Ah, love. That’s what the world has lost. There’s no more love, only the illusion of it.
Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.
I'm suddenly finding it hard to know the difference between nightmares and consciousness.
We can change so many times in our lives. We're born into a family, and it's the only life we can imagine, but it changes. Buildings collapse. Fires burn. And the next second we're someplace else entirely, going through different motions and trying to keep up with this new person we've become.
I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.
I never wanted to live forever," she says. "I just wanted enough time.
Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.
She has the majesty of hurricanes and explosions.
I was born into a world that was already dying; I belong to it.
Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.
I miss something I never even had.
Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.
Home?' I say. It's a word that can mean anywhere and nowhere.
Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.
I wonder what it’s like for her, looking so much like a dead girl.
I don’t have too many books, I have too little shelving.
It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.
Most dystopian, classic and contemporary, paints a future world that puts a twist on present society - a future world that could plausibly happen.
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