we have now been accounted for
and it is written on our empty graves
that After everything still I stayed.
And I mean it.
I stayed. I stayed. I stayed.
I told him I believed in hell, and that certain people, like me, had to live in hell before they died, to make up for missing out on it after death, since they didn’t believe in life after death, and what each person believed happened to him when he died.
How wonderful it is to be silent with someone.
A man who wants to die feels angry and full of life and desperate and bored and exhausted, all at the same time; he wants to fight everyone, and he wants to curl up in a ball and hide in a cupboard somewhere. He wants to say sorry to everyone, and he wants everyone to know just how badly they’ve all let him down.
I would cling to unhappiness because it was a known, familiar state. When I was happier, it was because I knew I was on my way back to misery. I’ve never been convinced that happiness is the object of the game. I’m wary of happiness.
If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn’t be filled?
I never understood desire until I felt your hands around my throat.
Then there is the boy you can never stop thinking about. Whenever you see his name, it trips you up. Even if it’s one that belongs to many others, even if he belongs to someone else.
You know he is a symbol of your weakness, your Kryptonite. How he rushes in like wildfire and burns through everything you worked so hard to build since he last left you in ashes.
To give pleasure to a single heart by a single act is better than a thousand heads bowing in prayer.
I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.
I want to cut out my heart for wanting so much.
Hold my fucking hand, loser. We’re using the buddy system for the rest of our lives.