I like you a lot. Because you’re funny and smart and because you seem to like me. I know that’s not a good reason, but I can’t help it; if a girl likes me I tend to like her back [...] I like you for all this stuff but I also kind of like you for the cuts on your face—

I feel dead, wasted, awful, broken and useless. It's not the kind of feeling you forget.

She's pretty." (It's amazing how girls can say this and make it the most withering insult.)

It's such a silly little thing, the heart.

I want my brain to slide back into the slot it was meant to be in, rest there the way it did before the fall of last year, back when I was young, witty, and my teachers said I had incredible promise.

Every tounge bit had another word to say.

its hard to talk when you want to kill yourself