Make Me (The Silent Hollow, #2)

by Alina May

If I’m bored, I need something in my mouth. I don’t fucking know why.

What can I say? The tortured poets get me every time.

Youuu're soooo dumb & poetic

If you bring a knife to a gunfight, you better be fucking fast.

I frown, mad at the blood, mad that the air makes me want to rip my lungs out, and mad at him. Mad at the people who fucking shot at us, and while we’re at it, mad at the fucking world.

Note to self: drink whiskey; it makes you gay.

I have more people to send to hell before I die.”

Where’s the justice? It feels like the harder I chase it, the farther away it gets.

So maybe that makes me a little bit gay. But I’m sure I won’t live long enough to process that anyway. So fuck it.

I think I may have to just let this bed eat me. If I lay here and rot, maybe I’ll become one with the sheets.

There’s something very wrong with me. Outside of the glaringly obvious.

Withhold the Medal of Honor—it won’t fit next to my alcohol dependence and mommy issues.

Sure, I may be a hypocrite. But that little issue needs to stand in line behind some of my other, more serious crimes.

When did killers become hot?

There will never be justice. There will only be me.

people in crisis don’t want solutions. They just want to be heard.

And it makes my heart break just a little. Because as fucked up as these two are, what they have is kind of… beautiful.

Fortunately for the guys, I’m still funny. Annoying is what they call it, but I know what they mean.

I think I’ve downgraded from a grippy sock vacation to something that resembles… peace. And it’s discomforting because I’ve never felt that before in my life.

Fuck. I’m definitely fucked in the head because 10/10 would get kidnapped again.