Every broken heart has screamed at one time or another, "I want to know why!

And no matter what closet we were thrown in, up what river we were sold for an embarrassment, or worse, traded for a bottle of gin--we’d carry on in playful stitches, friends‘til the end…which came sooner than wished.

I don't feel like a person at all: I am something to be loaded and unloaded, like a sofa or a cuckoo clock. I am something to be tossed into a junkyard, thrown into the river, if necessary. I don't feel real anymore. I feel like I could disappear.

They're brainless girls, otherwise they wouldn't be seen dead here. They're pretty, with ugly, appealing smiles and conversations we can't hear. They breathe smoke and blow it out, and words drop from their mouths and get crushed to the floor. Or they get discarded, just to glow with warmth for a moment, for someone else to tread on later.

A gift involves sacrifice. If you give away something that you no longer value or want, it cannot be a gift. It is simply a discarded item.

So often, the discarded love of youth is desperately yearned for in maturity.

we lived depravityand called it truth, silencingour dreaming, andour love, discardingthings holy.