love is not lost.

Tell me, father, which to ask forgiveness for: what I am, or what I’m not? Tell me, mother, which should I regret: what I became, or what I didn’t?

we’re all killers. we’ve all killed parts of ourselves to survive. we’ve all got blood on our hands. something somewhere had to die so we could stay alive.

this   is   love,  you say,        slipping      bullets                past  my  lips           with  every  kiss.

“Once upon a time, I too believed in heroes,” he sighed. “I believed they existed, and I believed they could make a difference. I truly thought they were capable of saving us— from each other, and from ourselves.” “Why did you stop believing?” the little girl asked. “Because they didn’t save me.”

ask yourself what you were. ask yourself what you wanted to be. ask yourself what you’ve become. now ask yourself: was it worth it?

you’re a dying thing that never quite dies. still desperate, still trying to keep going, to keep flying— to prove you’re alive.

I   hate   the   world —   for  no  reason  except that  it  makes  it  seem  as  though hate  is  the  only  option. —   for  it  is  both  the  means  and  the  ends, the  cause  and  the  effect, the  problem  and  the  solution. —   for  hate  is  the  answer  to  every  prayer when  God  isn't  listening, and  you’ve  stopped  wanting  him  to.

You are shaking fists & trembling teeth. I know: You did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean you were kind.

Tell me how it is, being the sun. You could walk into a room and they’d all be watching you. They’d all get down on their knees. I ask you how it is, and you say, “It hurts. It hurts.”

She keeps a knife close to her heart, ready to strike before anyone else does.

She looked at me. She said, ‘You’re no daughter of mine.’ It hardly mattered. It was too late for lines like that now. I had a language of my own and it wasn’t hers.

Girls like her, my grandfather once warned me, girls like her turn into women with eyes like bullet holes and mouths made of knives. They are always restless. They are always hungry. They are bad news. They will drink you down like a shot of whisky. Falling in love with them is like falling down a flight of stairs.

I’m on nobody’s side but my own. And if that sounds selfish, it’s because it is.