Be my sonata, my cantata, my lovesing me something sweetbut not too sweet(or i may grow deaf to our harmonyas we decrescendo into silence)
People only picked the pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. The ones with thorns were left alone.
Maybe that was the root of my dislike for her: she had what I wanted, which earned her my jealousy, and since I was ashamed of myself for wanting it, my scorn, as well.
You want to be free. You also want to be mine. You can't be both.
Mamá had always made it clear she believed girls who got raped deserved it. I hadn't done any of the things she said “bad” girls did, though. I didn't parade myself around in sluttish clothes and make...
Only the cruelest hunters set their traps with terror and trepidation.
We always vilify what we don't understand.
When they figure out how to bottle up orgasms and sell them as a food additive, I'll be first in line.
Why did this keep happening? Why her? Perhaps there was some pheromone certain people omitted, perceivable only on a wavelength unique to those individuals who preyed on them.
Humanity is a cage, and our puritanical sensibilities comprise the bars. We are confined by our own reason and intellect, and yet most of us don't even know it.
If you don't feel the same way about him, if you're just leading him on, you need to tell him that. I've seen too many nice guys get shafted because a girl can't get over some jerk.
He was everything your mother warned you about when she told you not to walk alone in the dark.
Death was not the scariest thing out there; no, the denial of it could be far worse.
What do you want to do with your life, then?” is often the question I'm asked.To be honest, I don't know. I really don't.Mainly because I don't see myself living long enough for that to make much of a...
Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die.
Fairytales by nature only talk about the victors. The survivors. Nobody speaks about what happens to those who failed, except in the abstract: as cautionary tales to guide others onto the path to succ...
Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn't it? So easily burst, like a bubble blown by a child, and always on the verge of being carried away.
Nobody wants to believe that existence carries on without at least taking a stumble from their departure of this world.
All statistics have outliers.
We feel most alive when we are closest to death.
