Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.

I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.

You came form different starts and you'll come to different ends.

I need him to know that I came for him. I need him to know that somehow, at some point in the tunnels, I began to love him.

I don't know whether these feelings - this thing growing inside of me - is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me. Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.

Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.

....love and desire enjoy a symbiotic relationship, meaning that one cannot exist without the other. Desire is an enemy to contentment; desire is illness, a feverish brain. Who can be considered healthy who wants? The very word want suggests a lack, an impoverishment, and that is what desire is: an impoverishment of the brain, a flaw, a mistake.