After all, how many of us had tried to forget something traumatic...only to find it printed on the back of our eyelids, tattooed on our tongues?

The act of reading is a partnership. The author builds a house, but the reader makes it a home.

I personally subscribe to the belief that normal is just a setting on the dryer.

How could you not want to draw breath one more day? How could your own life be such a cheap commodity? But then I started to understand: when your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

It is strange to think that we might have crossed paths, and still not have known what we were missing.

I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I don't want to tell myself it's over when it's not.

I understand better than she'd imagine that history is indelible. You can mask it; you can patch it smooth and clear; but you always know what's hidden underneath.