Perfection is a promise, and a reassurance that we are not wrong.

We're killers, all of us: We kill our lives, our past selves, the things that mattered. We bury them under slogans and excuses.

They didn’t get me, I should have said. They saved me.

What does it feel like to be infected?" "I-- I can't describe it." I force the words out. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. His skin smells like smoke from a wood fire, like soap, like heaven. I imagine tasting his skin; I imagine biting his lips. "I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.

It's the rule of the wilds. You must be bigger, and stronger, and tougher. A coldness radiates through me, a solid wall that is growing, piece by piece, in my chest. He doesn't love me. He never loved me. It was all a lie. "The old Lena is dead." I say, and then push past him. Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.

That's the thing about faith. It works.

You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.