dog-toothed.

don't you ever wish that you could be a little better, or more useful? isn't there anyone you could have just been kinder to?

BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD. THE MOST INTIMATE ACT IS MURDER.

"are you even christian?" "i think so. i just don't agree with the church. or the people. or the bible." "or god."

i wish he could see the hate in my head.

sink your teeth into my wrist and scrape your fingers against my bone and tell me you still need me because everyone is always leaving and the cycle never changes and someone is always left behind and..

count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums.

lips of sewage. you know i've gone septic, and i don't want to get better.

"i am terrible," i would say. "i have terrible thoughts. i have terrible feelings. i am terrible." "you are not terrible," you would resolve, holding my hands between yours. "i love you. i can see that you are not terrible. i can feel it."

one day, you'll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.

please, could i just have some time to sit quietly in the dark and speak to no one, not even you? i promise, afterwards, i will help take care of you. i promise, and i won't break it. i want to be good.

she reached over and touched my cheek. 'you'll die alone,' she said, and she wasn't crying anymore.

dying keeps moving lower on the list of the worst things that can happen to me here.

i guess that's what makes people do horrible things —— they think whatever they're doing isn't nearly as bad as what somebody else will do.

you can never be as good as someone dead.

love, your blood is spilling in cascades and i couldn't wipe it away, couldn't clean it up, no, no, my palms turned cups and oh, i gulped.

when i meet others like me, i recognize the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.

"it's all a fucking lie! and i am just a pawn in your stupid games. i don't mean anything to you." "oh, you mean everything to me."

you don't know how jealous i am. i want you to love me to death.

you'll die watching your blood seep out over goldenrod and bluestem, clutching the broken bones in your throat, and you'll remember, then, that i might have saved you, that i loved you enough to try.

'it will get better,' they say. i've been waiting for years for it to get better.