No matter how lonely it makes me, and no matter how wide and horrific the loneliness, at least I remember who I am.

Humans are the absolute worst thing to happen to this planet.

I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.

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.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.

I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?