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

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.

It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

On tiptoes the redhead wouldn't even reach my shoulders; she is clearly too young to be a bride. And the willowy girl is too forlorn. And I am too unwilling. Yet here we are.

I don’t have too many books, I have too little shelving.

I've loved you since the day I stole the atlas for you," Gabriel says, because he thinks I'm asleep.

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.