But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

You can try to please everyone and risk accomplishing nothing, or go for your dreams and risk pissing a few people off.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

It's never right to give up on someone.

Living in a place like this, she must have learned how to see all the monsters that can hide a person.

I think humans have always been desperate. I think it has always been about doing something awful if it might help, when the only other option is death. Maybe that's what being a parent is supposed to feel like.