There are no accusations with writing, no judgment, no shame, only freedom.

Because people fear those who are different. And fear can make people do stupid things.

I just don’t see the point of talking unless there’s something to say.

One of the stall doors swings open and a fortyish-year-old woman walks out tucking her shirt into her jeans. Her heavy lined eyes land on Seth. "This is the women's restroom." She points a finger to the door. "Can't you read?" "Can't you see that everyone in this club is about twenty years younger than you?" Seth retorts, turning to the mirror. With his pinkie, he messes with bangs. "Now if you'll excuse us, we're going to have some fun.

Maybe if I try hard enough, we'll fall into each other and become one single person and we can share our pain instead of carrying it by ourselves.

I can handle scars, especially ones that are on the outside." I understand his meaning from the depths of my heart.

He tastes like mint and need, as he overpowers me with his tongue.