She was the epic crush of my childhood. She was the tragedy that made me look inside myself and see my corrupt heart. She was my sin and my salvation, come back from the grave to change me forever. Again. Back then, when she sat on my bed and told me she loved me, I wanted her as much as I have ever wanted anything.

One fine day, in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other. They pulled out their swords and shot one another. One deaf cop, on the beat heard the noise, and came and shot the two dead boys.

You really dug your own grave,” he mutters. “And I’m going to bury you in it.” “Say that louder,” I tell him, under my breath. “I dare you.

You carried my heart in your hands tonight," he said. "But I have felt as if you carried it long before that.

The row of dolls watched her impassively from the bookshelf, their tea party propriety almost certainly offended.

They say that nameless things change constantly—that names fix them in place like pins.

Clever as the Devil and twice as pretty.