Is that love? It seems like a pale word, too easily tossed about by people who don’t know the meaning of it, who twist it for their own ends. I’m afraid of it now, right up there with clowns, close spaces, and open flames.

She carries chaos like an overcoat.

What was the good of having such a fine home if you weren't willing to fight for it?

He was the heat of a fire and the sweetness of the moon I'd only just met.

Love can make us do dreadful things.

I don’t like anyone knowing anything about me that I didn’t choose to tell them.

We're broken in complementary ways, thus rendering our damage comprehensible to each other.