Sometimes all I want is to be a few inches taller so the world does not look like a dense collection of torsos.

I choose him over and over again, and he chooses me.

I'm surprised you know that," I say quietly, " since you left halfway through my one and only fight." "It wasn't something I wanted to watch." he says. What's that supposed to mean?

I catch myself thinking 'Thank God For This' out of habit, and then I understand what he's so concerned about. What if my parents' God, their whole belief system, is just something concocted by a bunch of scientists to keep us under control? And not just their beliefs about God and whatever else is out there, about right and wrong, about selfishness?

I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness. But there isn't much I can do to stop them.

We may both be bad, but there’s a huge difference between us—I’m not content with being this way.

You know, there's a word for big, strong men who attack women, and it's coward.