I thought living dead girls couldn't feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I'm not, I'm not.

You ready?" Evan asks, and he's looking at me, and I love his hair, I love his smile, I lo--"I Love You," I say, and as I watch his smile bloom I finally get how great those three little words are. I finally get what they really mean.

Like a heart, and I wish mine wasn't beating.

I don't know how I know that, but I do. I can feel the beat of that truth inside me. Taste it bitter on my tongue. Sometimes, like now, I didn't think I want to know who I really am.

I don't eat bread.' Is she pouting? It's hard to tell. She's had a lot of chemicals injected into her face.

The world will knock you down plenty. You don't need to be doing it to yourself.

The story of my life can be told in silver: in chocolate mills, serving spoons, and services for twelve. The story of my life has nothing to do with me. The story of my life is things. Things that aren’t mine, that won’t ever be mine. It’s all I’ve ever known. I wish it wasn’t.