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Trevor has his moments though, mainly because of his hair. Trevor’s hair is very expressive.
She’ll just feel like you were an unfortunate spider creeping around her dollhouse but you were kind enough to die on your own.
Shaking my head. I feel close to crying. But I won’t. I almost never do.
He is so handsome it feels like a joke God is playing on the women of the English department, a coven of quietly broken creatures with fathomless lusts for Sting.
Forget authority. You have no authority here. You have lost. Oh, but I refuse to lose.
“Miranda.” She pauses, like my name is its own sad thing.
Better to act like all is well. Because all is well.
Was he afraid of me? Impossible. No one is afraid of me. How long since anyone has been afraid of me, really?
She is always there, always ready, always on time, like only the truly mediocre are.
this quote is everything to me actually
I don’t say anything. My turn to lower my head. I feel a smile. Unholy. Twitching on my face.
Ellie beams again. Hideously. There is something loathsome about her intensity, her passion, I can’t deny it.
“Usually Briana is so hearty, so immune,” Fauve insists. “Like a weed,”
All the more reason to look like all is well. Ha.
Slither, slither. All for the sake of her sad career, her sorry survival.
But he isn’t Paul, I checked his driver’s license while he was showering to remind myself.
Why guilty when we deserve it, when maybe, just maybe, it’s a question of justice?” I smile. “Anyway, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Briana’s back.”
How even now, my lips are close to smiling though I know this is so serious. Can’t help it. Too happy. Blood happy, bones happy, cells always singing.
Where was it all before? Where was all this tenderness when I needed it most, when I was lying on the floor dreaming of a touch like this, of a voice that would say something, anything, kind? Nowhere. Then his face was a shut door. His heart was closed like a fist. His hands stayed at his sides and his eyes observed my weeping like unfortunate weather.
A tenderness that says, Go on. Break for me. I’ll pick up every piece of you, promise.
Will he leave a bruise? Will he leave a mark like Mark used to? All of Mark’s little marks. All those soft black, purple, and yellow spots blooming down my legs and flanks, the strangest watercolors. John’s welts on my thigh.
this line is SOOOOOO good
The wound sings from the salt. It doesn’t burn, it sings.
My voice sounds heavy, like a felled thing.
Not the brightly beaming face of the young woman from the old Playbill photo, not anymore. No more eyes like stars, no more blinding eclipse. This face shines another light. This face says I have lived, I’m alive. This face says I’ve known joy and pain, known them both. I’ll know them both again.
