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From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. ALONE, EDGAR ALLAN POE
I’ve got blood on my hands—and my face, apparently—after all. But I’m still unsettled. “You tell him what you want, Angel.” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, but she’s still staring straight ahead. “And if he gives you any shit about it, put his dick in your mouth and make him shut the fuck up.”
My New Year’s resolutions are simple: Get my sister back from Jeremiah. Don’t fuck anyone that’s kin to me. And maybe kill my dad if I’m feeling ambitious.
“I know a devil when I see one.” “And just how many devils have you met?” I ask her, leaning down close, the blade still against her neck. I hear her swallow. “Not many,” she admits, “but every time I look in the mirror, there’s one staring back at me.”
I don’t wanna go anywhere you’re not going, even if you take me straight to hell.
“I fucking love you and I didn’t see you coming. I never saw this coming, okay? But I love you and your fucking red hair and your freckles and how you could eat everything in my goddamn house and still want more. I love how you beg me, how you want me to hurt you, how you kiss me. How you’ve defended me more than anyone else has in my life.”
He set my heart on fire when I wasn’t sure I could feel a fucking thing anymore. But I feel him, burning in me, and I know that flame will never go out. He’s not any less damaged than when we first met, and neither am I. It’s not even that our broken pieces fit well together; they don’t. It’s that we’re willing to step in the glass, bleed a little for each other; that’s what matters. That’s what our love is. Broken, bloody, and perfect.
