It seems impossible that you can love one person so much, no matter what happens, no matter what they do.

I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.

Our eyelashes brushed like they would weave together by themselves, turning us into one wild thing. I say, “I think I missed you before I met you even.

If you were a mermaid, you said, If you were a mermaid, I was the sea.

Love is a dangerous angel.

What shall we do, all of us? All of us oassionate girls who fear crushing the boys we love with our mouths like caverns of teeth, our mushrooming brains, our watermelon hearts?

If death is your lover, you don't got to be afraid ever that he will ever leave you