“I don't need rose petals and moonshine. It's three in the afternoon on a Thursday, and I will die if you don't kiss me.”

“A White RoseThe red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.”

“Don't do this to me, Eliza. Please. I need you.” I looked at Paul. He was crying. “You don't need me,” I said, wondering whether or not I believed it. He gripped my face and kissed me. But it was a hard, painful kiss. A severe and bitter kiss. A kiss that seemed so black, so final, it was like death. “Happy fucking Birthday.”

“A rose dreams of enjoying the company of bees, but none appears. The sun asks:“Aren’t you tired of waiting?”“Yes,” answers the rose, “but if I close my petals, I will wither and die.”

“Because it's simple, I love you, and I don't want to keep pretending like I don't. -Rose to Dimitri”

“It's my hurt, my pain, and who are you to take it from me? I don't need rescuing, I don't need pity, I don't need opinions, I need fucking--and maybe a little spanking for indulging my anger.”