Survival feels like cowardice.

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

This is not a love story. It is my life, and as such, there is love, loss, war, death, and sacrifice. It's about things that needed to be done and choices made. I regret nothing.

I'm not sick, Deuce. You don't know your own charm." My charm? I hadn't been aware I had any. It must be the dress, I thought.

Through the damp fabric of my coverall, bundled in my blanket, I feel naked. Raw. He sees more than I want, more than I can bear. It’s like standing before him ... while he stares at my scars, pitiless and unmoved.

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

I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.