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felt more like a poppy. Bright and happy—addictive to anyone who gets near enough.
A single human is mostly irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, except to other insignificant humans.
my therapist says that to hate him is to hate myself. That forgiveness matters.
If you push a psychopath hard enough, though, they explode. Once you get to the last straw, you’re in a zero to sixty situation and should probably run.
“Being born bad is an illusion, Poppy. But some people, like your father, are born without the capacity to feel,” Eleanor says.
The hitchhiker says, “What made you pick me up? Aren’t you scared I might be a psychopath?” And the woman says, “Of course not. The odds of there being two psychopaths in this car are far too high.”
coffee is a necessity; the lifeblood humans run on. People bond over it the way they do over their love of animals or electric cars.
it’s human nature not to believe the things that don’t seem to make sense. But everything makes sense once you’re ready to see it.
This stalker is… like me. I’m not alone in this world after all. I can’t help but smile. Interesting. Very interesting.
In romance novels, the bad boy just needs the heroine to understand him—love always fixes him. Here, I’m the “bad boy,” but there’s no fixing it. I was born bad.
Show someone your vagina one time, and you’re on the hook for all kinds of nonsense. Men.
I’m a planet without an axis. A bone without a tendon to keep it anchored. A body without a hook. Out of control.
Love doesn’t mean much to psychopaths, but loyalty—proof—those are the things of commitment.
I am my father’s child. And we protect the ones we need.
And a determined man, his blood singing with righteousness, is the most dangerous kind.
Maybe that’s all love is. Protection. A concern that transcends your own well-being.
From now until forever, this will be our dance, our connection. A link between people. A shared bond of fluids. Of blood.
