“Grief, I swear to God, doesn't live in the heart. It lives in the senses. And sometimes, all I want to do is cut off my nose so I can't smell her, hack my fingers off at the joint.”
“Don't do it. I swear to god I will break your fingers off... Okay, do it.”
“I want to cut off her head and take out her heart.”
“Sometimes I think there's a beast that lives inside me, in the cavern that's where my heart should be, and every now and then it fills every last inch of my skin, so that I can't help but do something inappropriate. Its breath is full of lies; it smells of spite.”
“My lips touched hers, like two butterflies in the wind. Then I went home, cut off my eyelids, and I’ve been living in darkness since.”
“There something I can do to get this over with quick? Like, can I just run in front of a cab and take my lumps and we call it even? As opposed to you cutting off my nose and all, I mean.”