Sometimes I hate him. When he does the dishes, he shakes off each one before setting it in the drying rack. Water flies everywhere. A couple of drops always hit me in the face. I have to leave the room to avoid smashing a plate against his head.
That's why writers write—to say things loudly with ink. To give feet to thoughts; to make quiet, still feelings loudly heard.
Tell me a truth, Senna." "I don't know how," I breath. "Then tell me a lie." "I don't love you," I say. I sink beneath the weight of it all. Isaac stirs behind me, and then he is leaning over me, his elbows on either side of my head. "The truth is fo...
There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye. Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings. Maybe the chances that you'll find each and every one of you...
We are lovers, fear and I. She calls to me, and I let her in.
Tell me a truth, Senna." "I don't know how." "Then tell me a lie." "I don't love you." "The truth is for the mind," he says. "Lies are for the heart. So let's just keep lying.
I like pain. I like when it lingers. It reminds a person of what they've lived through.
I discovered that private things were mostly sour. They sat spoiling in the corners of your heart for so long that by the time you acknowledged them you were dealing with something rancid.
What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?” “One is a choice, and one is not.
