I love the way she feels inthe curve of my arm. I loveher unpretentious beauty,her intelligence, her nerve.But could I ever love her?The concept of falling in loveis completely foreign, somethingI can’t bring myself to accept. Her hair pillows my cheek and her hand on my leg is warm. I care about you, Conner, and I hate to see you hurting. I want to respond but can’tfind the pretty words I need.

...Every word an author writes causes ripples, like tossing a stone into a pond. And you don't know where they'll go, or who they'll touch, or when they might come back to you. I think everything you do is kind of like that, too.

Sometimes,you don't wake up.But if you happento, you know thingswill never bethe same.

Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.Easier staying pissed. But I’mtired of being pissed all the time.Tired of feeling hurt by stuff thatcan never be fixed because it isan indelible part of the past.

...what good would it do toshutter your windows, neverdream of rainbows or find hopein promises? Why choose to walk awayrather than hold your groundand fight for love?

Love is more than blind. It's brain-dead.

Anger is easier than forgiveness.

Hurt. Enough to want to make someone else hurt too.

Honesty. Sobriety. My virginity. No way to regain the first two, I almost gave away the last.

Nonfiction speaks to the head. Fiction speaks to the heart. Poetry speaks to the soul. It's the essence of beauty. The essence of pain. It pleases the eye and the ear.

I thought he'd run if he knew. Instead, he offered help, not that I believed he could possibly help. I thought he'd turn his back, close his heart, slink away. Instead, he promised sanctuary.

Innocence eroded into nightmare.All because of very bad touch.Love, corrupted.