What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart.

He was one of those guys who'd pronounce I'm a hugger as he came at you, neglecting to ask if the feeling was mutual.

I just think some women aren't made to be mothers. And some women aren't made to be daughters.

There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.

Most beautiful, good things were done by women people scorn.

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.)

Sometimes I think I won't ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand.