his thumbs ran over my cheeks. Our foreheads touched. My dreamscape scorched. He set fire to the poppies

Knowledge is dangerous. Once you know something, you can't get rid of it. You have to carry it. Always.

I was not a rebellious teenager. I was a sit-in-your-room teenager.

Words are everything. Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.

I like to imagine there were more of us in the beginning. Not many, I suppose. But more than there are now.

I would never see him again. But as I watched the tunnel race before my eyes, I was certain of one thing: I did trust him. Now I had only to trust in myself.

They'd branded me like some kind of animal. Lower than an animal. A number.