I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds; they repair the broken skin.

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

That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.

It's surprisingly nice out here, peaceful and pretty-strange to be standing in the middle of a little garden while enclosed by the massive stone walls of the prison, like being at the exact center of a hurricane, and finding peace and silence in the middle of so much shrieking damage.

It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.

And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.” I’m gasping, feeling as though I am about to drown; I’m reaching for him blindly, grabbing at his collar.

He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true. But he may also fly.