My sisters were in that van.

We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.

There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.

For males twenty-five is the fatal age. For women it's twenty. We are all dropping like flies.

Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.

It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him; love is not enough to keep any of us alive.