It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.
I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
No one had ever told her this basic fact: not everyone got to be loved.