Most people weren’t aware enough to fear the things that could really hurt them.

The whole world is like Whitewall's razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there's no purpose to it.

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.

Stalkers lips curled into a sneer. "You won't make a move without him, huh? That's embarrassing." "No," I said softly. "It just hurts because you wish it was you.

He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.

If I ever win you," he said, anger bright in his pale eyes, "it will be because you want me more. Not because he's gone. I'm nobody's second best.

Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.