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“I know you would, you little psychopath.”
I have never been someone of value. Not to anybody. Not even to my own goddamned mother, the one person on this planet who is supposed to give a fuck about me.
person—the way she bites her nails ragged, for instance—it all becomes the spice that I crave more than any bland and perfect beauty.
Some mistake has been made: I died, heaven exists, and they let me in.
“At first it was against my will,” I tell her. “But now I’m all in. I have to have you. Even if it blows up my life.”
Eyes as black as pits, always burning. Face as beautiful as sin. Mouth forever hungry, swallowing me whole.
He suits me like no one ever has. He understands me.
