#thighgap (My Dark Library Book 2)

by Chandler Morrison

When the death spiral of cold panic sets in, it will not be sated without some form of sacrifice.

Ahhh!!

“Why does it...make sense?” Because I’m beautiful. Tell me I’m beautiful again. Just keep saying it over and over and don’t say anything else.

I hate the sound of my footsteps. They indicate my presence in the world. I want to be a thing without mass, devoid of matter, drained of all substance. I want to become nothing.

I also text Colette and Summer and, for the hell of it, someone I’ve saved in my phone as “Angel Dust Guy 3.” If there’d ever been an Angel Dust Guy 1 or 2, they aren’t in my phone anymore.

I love this

Wrapping myself in a Versace bathrobe, I walk out of my apartment and begin drifting through the halls, imagining myself a ghost. I knock on doors that no one answers. I ride the elevator to different floors, praying to something that isn’t there that I’ll run into someone. Anyone. Maybe they’ll ask me if I’m okay, take me inside, make me a cup of tea. Maybe some terrible man will grab me and tie me up and brutally rape me before cutting my face off so he can nail it to his wall. Maybe a girl will appear, a girl who’s exactly like me, and she’ll see me for what I am and take me in her

Omfg shes so real for this

arms and tell me everything is going to be all right. Maybe I’ll even believe her.

Maybe I’m surrounded by demons and phantoms and poltergeists. Things long dead, or things which never lived.

We spend all this time talking about your hang-ups with food and being thin, and it’s just getting kind of old. We need to explore new ground. We need to get sexual with it.”

Hah! What the fuck is this!