Nobody ever really sees me the way I am, underneath everything. But she did. She does.

I like all the things that make you monstrous.

Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

She looks honestly upset, but then, I’ve learned that I can’t read her. The problem with a really excellent liar is that you have to just assume they’re always lying.

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

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.

If the enemy of my enemy is my friend, then surely you should be friend to my friend.