Never ever feel inferior because of the colour of your skin. Great is your soul.
I keep sniffing my skin, pleasantly surprised by how nice it is to smell like a flower. I've never smelled like anything before.
Better not to find out whether or not the rumors are true, I say. Better find the other bastard and skin him.
There is something about the fifteen-year-old mind -- a kind of skin or veil or walling off from feelings not your own.
If you think your scars bother me, you're wrong. In my eyes, you're a hero. Your scars are just proof of that.
It's going to be okay. Donny doesn't know it yet, but he just picked a fight with the wrong bunch of guys." -- Julian Darcangelo
Doesn't matter how pretty you are. What's important is how pretty you feel. No one feels pretty when they hear "no" often enough.
My unhappiness precluded all else; unhappiness is a kind of narcissism, in which nothing that does not resonate with your unhappiness can interest you.
Peeling off my skin / leaving just my eyes behind / You see inside my head / Still know that you are mine.
I'm only happy when I forget to exist. When just my eyes or my ears or my skin exist.
Lord above, was there a better sight than a woman flush with passion, her skin dewy and pink, her breasts bouncing from the force of his thrusts?
she is nearing forty and not so easily forgiven as when her skin bloomed like roses.
...but with each step I took I could feel it; like an itch under the skin, I was only ever aware of it enough to know that it could never be satisfied.
His fingers never ceased to amaze me. They could break a man's neck, bandage a wound, and slide sensually across bare skin.
A tree has leaves like man has hair. Some men go winter in the summer, and other men, like me, like skiing on skin.
In a perfect patch of paradise he stays immobile for an eternity while the predawn breath strokes his skin and kisses each vertebrae down his spine.
In the haunted shade of the Ateneo, her hands wrote a curse on my skin that was to hound me for years.
He was in my nose, my mouth, on my skin, inside my cells, deep in the marrow of my bones. Just then, he was everything to me.
Creativity and ideas fired between every synapse underneath my skin and I felt radiant from the inside out.
I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds; they repair the broken skin.
He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked. The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.
