Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don’t want to hope for anything anymore.
Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them
You can't eat books, sweetheart.
An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?