We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.

The only characters I ever don't like are ones that leave no impression on me. And I don't write characters that leave no impression on me.

We writers are resilient souls.

Don't you miss it?" I say. "Being free." He laughs.

She’s a commodity in a sea of broken girls.

There are so many of us, so many girls. The world wants us for our wombs or our bodies, or it doesn't want us at all.

She has the majesty of hurricanes and explosions.