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“First of all, age is just a number. You’re not what your age is. You are what you’ve gone through. Mark Twain said that age is just mind over matter.”
what about the things that are imperfect? Things that might not be as pretty or as conventional. Things that might be weird, outdated or outcast? They’re not in much demand, are they? They’re not wanted. But I do. I want them. So they don’t feel rejected.”
Bukowski said to let the thing that you love kill you. Not that this is love but it’s okay if he kills me for this.
“You. A teenage girl who stunk of a thousand-dollar rum. You are my moment. A girl who ruined my life. That’s what I think about. I think about my lost peace of mind. The peace that you took from me. I think about the shitshow my life has become. I think about how the fuck to forget you. And I think about how no matter what I do, I never will. Because you’re a nightmare that’s goddamn unforgettable.”
I eat girls like you for breakfast. Do you understand? And you? I’ll eat you up so slow that you’ll feel every painful bite. I’ll make you feel every painful bite. Every sharp stab of my teeth. Every vicious pull of my mouth. And trust me, you’re not going to like it, not one bit. So smarten the fuck up and leave.
“It means I’m a masochist, Mr. Edwards. I like the pain. The pain doesn’t scare me. You don’t scare me. And let me tell you another secret – masochists like me? We have really tasty skin. You can eat me up all you want. You can eat me up a hundred different ways. I’m gonna like your teeth and your tongue and I’m gonna fall in love with the sting of it all. You’re my Strawberry Man. At least, that’s what I call you in my head.”
still can’t get over how he walked on broken glass to prevent me from doing it myself. I was supposed to bleed for him, seal my promise in blood. But he bled for me, instead.
God, he could be my soul mate, couldn’t he? The one person who electrifies the very being of me. The one person who could set it all, my soul, my heart, my body on fire.
“No, Violet, I’m not saying that you’re visible. I’m saying that you’re the only thing that a man sees. I’m saying that you’re a thing that drives a man to distraction. You make him forget what’s right and what’s wrong. You’re a thing so terrible and beautiful and fucking breathtaking that he can’t escape you. He can’t think of anything else, not about his job, his responsibilities, his promises, his family, nothing but you. You undo him. You make him helpless. You turn him into an animal who wants to rut. You’re a girl who makes a man go bad.”
I nod, letting my hand, my entire body go limp and lax. Like clay. He can mold me and press and push into me as much as he wants. He can shape me however he wants. I’m his.
Love isn’t about asking someone to love you back. It’s about loving. It’s about finding that thing you love and letting it kill you because you’re going to die anyway. And what better way to go than at the hands of someone you love.
You know, when you suffer from anxiety, everything is a disaster. Everything is a catastrophe waiting to happen. You drown in them, in your bad thoughts.
