“Poetry is just so emo." he said. "Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.”

“Even then, it hurt. The pain was always there, pulling me inside of myself, demanding to be felt. It always felt like I was waking up from the pain when something in the world outside of me suddenly required my comment or attention.”

“At least it was instant. At least there wasn't any pain."I knew he was only trying to help, but he didn't get it.There was pain. A dul endless pain in my gut that wouldn't go away even when I knelt on the stingingly frozen tile of the bathroom, dry-heaving.”

“I go in and slip a note in Jane's locker, which I've gotten in the habit of doing. It's always just a line or two that I found from some poem in the gigantic poetry anthology my sophomore English taught me from. I said I wouldn’t be the kind of boyfriend who reads her poetry, and I’m not, but I guess I am the kind of cheesy bastard who slips lines of poetry into her mornings.”

“There are times when you just have to let it all out. All the anger, all the pain.”

“How are the eyes?''Oh, excellent,' he said. 'I mean, they're not in my head is the only problem.''Awesome, yeah,' Gus said. 'Not to one-up you or anything, but my body is made out of cancer.''So I heard,' Issac said, trying not to let it get to him. He fumbled toward Gus's hand and found only his thigh.'I'm taken,' Gus said.”

“It’s not fair,” I said. “It’s just so goddamnedunfair.”“The world,” he said, “is not a wishgrantingfactory,”