I don't love him, & he definitely doesn't love me. Still, he semi-fills a gaping black hole inside me. That place wants love, maybe even needs love, but love is something I"m pretty sure doesn't exist.

We kissed for about the thousandth time, No promises, no demands, Just solid rebuilding of shattered trust.

Because to tell you the truth, most of the time dying seems pretty much like my only means of escape

Believe it or not, I sold my first novel, Crank, with only seventy-five pages complete. It was in verse then, and it was hard-hitting then.

Words have power. The power to soothe. The power to skewer someone through the heart. The power to render someone speechless.

How odd, to suddenly glimpse a facet of me I didn't know existed. I guess it really isn't all that unusual to surprise oneself with an ugly bit of ego.

Love can complete you. It can also destroy you.