It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him; love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.
Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.
It's never right to give up on someone.
I can hear my brother's voice in my head. Your problem is that you're too emotional. But how can I not be emotional, Rowan? How can I not care?
We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.
No matter how lonely it makes me, and no matter how wide and horrific the loneliness, at least I remember who I am.
Love unrequited is violent. He loves you so much that he's turned it into hate.
Momentum,' She repeats. 'You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.
Don't forget how you got here. Don't Forget.
He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.
He says one word, nodding into the daylight. "Look." It's an astounding word. It's a gift.
Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.
I want to make the world into something better so that he can be okay.
It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.
I lost everyone I loved," I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, "The day I met you.
Did you tell freedom hello for me?
It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.
When we're alive, life consumes us. But when we die, all of the color and the motion is gone so quickly, it's as though it can no longer stand to be wasted on us.
It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says; "We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls." "There are always walls." I say.
I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.
Every star has been set in the sky. We mistakenly think they were put there for us.
There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.
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