Hurricanes couldn’t remove you from my mind. You’re my world and I’m incapable of not loving you.

You see that girl, she looks so happy right? But inside she's dying. She's hurt and tired. Tired of all the drama, tired of not being good enough, tired of life. But she doesn't want to look dramatic, weak or attention seeking so she keeps it all inside. Act's like everything's perfect but she cries at night, boy does she cry at night, so that everybody thinks she is the happiest person they know, that she has no problems and her life is perfect. Little do they know.

For every blissful moment you must an anguish meet.

A wounded animal yet bears teeth

There was a feeling on the air like the eve of the end of the world.

Beneath Albright’s office, the colliery sprawled across the hillside, red brick buildings scattered as though hurled from a great height, a hotchpotch of mismatched structures spattered on the valley floor. At the bottom stood the winding house, wheels motionless, above it, the engineering sheds and workshops, canteen and bath house. All lay empty. No buzz and hum of machinery. No voices raised in laughter or dispute. Gwyn found it unsettling: his lads had been out a month and a half and already the power had drained from the place. In the stillness, he caught the echo of footsteps. The crunch of boots on gravel. Generations of long-gone Pritchards clocking in and out. He was bound to Blackthorn by the coal that clogged his veins and by a bond of duty. The strike left him as diminished as his pit, day dragging after idle day.

The truth is, time marches on and you have two choices: You move forward, come what may, and you experience all the sour and sweet things that fly at you from around corners, or you sit still. Don't sit still.

The air between them began to settle into a silence. Awkward, yet softly exciting. Like an unexpected snow day.

See, I didn’t turn into a monster. You’re safe here with me, Daisy. I control that part because I don’t allow it like he does.

You don't know the art of eating ice cream." I mumbled."And what's that?" He said sarcastically."That is, to enjoy every single spoonful, lick it thrice to completely clean it off, then take another spoonful, and so on. You know what's sweet time? That is called sweet time. Next time, do it and enjoy the heavenly taste of it. It will increase its deliciousness by tenfold." I grinned at him.

Red glowing eyes... No one could see her. No one could hear her. No one was coming to save her. Because Death had come sooner than expected.

I hadn't yet come to terms with the man my father was, or the lives he'd destroyed. But I accepted that he was part of me, and that he'd loved me once.

Nothing in life is permanent. All of it will eventually disappear…Maybe we’re supposed to know that…accept it, and live our lives differently because of it. Rearrange our priorities based on the finite number of heartbeats we have left.

And on bad days, when his aura of sadness blazed like an alarm he couldn’t turn off, I felt like I was doing everything wrong.

Though the heart may be cracked wide, pain can still seep in.

Hate is a lot like love. It's warm and fills you up until every part of you is tingling to release it.

I don't like seeing myself on camera." But that's not it--that sounds shallow, like I'm worried I'll look fat or something. "It's like somebody is walking on my grave. TV immortalizes you. The episodes are what my family would watch if I died.

This, I think, is a little glimpse of what life could be like without my family. Home could be a place of laughter and love, a refuge. I'm filled with a terrifying weightlessness, like I've jumped off a cliff, but I know that if I don't look down, I'll be just fine.

This night felt like a last hurrah, like we could blaze our brightest, at the apex of our insane adolescence. This was our Mardi Gras before the dark days of Lent.

Somehow, the pain and rage and confusion of the past eighteen years dissolves until all that is left is this one perfect moment; unscripted, unedited, it's ours and ours alone.

He looks like the kind of boy who would jump trains, strum guitars, and pass a joint.

You can't screw up your own suicide and then expect the universe to give you presents wrapped in the skin of a wonderful boy. That's just not the way it works.

If my sister were a character in a Victorian drama, she would be the snobbish rich girl with a penchant for talking shit about everyone behind their fan.

The past is past. You tried to kill yourself. So what? I humped a couch in season twelve. We all have our skeletons.

Even Mom doesn't understand how being in front of a camera all the time twists and warps you. How one second it makes you feel unbelievably alive and the next publicly strips you down until all that's left is one big question mark.

I'm not Bonnie™ or Chloe. I'm the essence of her, the nontrademarked person the camera can never capture and my parents have no right to sign over. There is a sovereign nation encased in this skin that MetaReel can never trademark.