Love is illogical. You fall into it like a manhole. Then you’re just stuck. You die in love more than you live in love.
I can make you part of something great and beautiful and still portray you as the ugly thing you are
I think it’s hard for you to fall in love because you like control, and you can’t control what another person does or feels, so you keep all your cards.
Even to your old age and grey hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have loved you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you[.]
I was just a flat line until he came along. And maybe now I’m hurting. But isn’t that what love is supposed to do? Make you feel, make you brave, make you look at yourself more carefully?
Overbearing mothers usually give way to one of two things in their children: rebellion or passivity. In your case, the latter.
Women hold all the power. They should use it like a whip, not offer it up like a sacrifice.
I’m afraid.” Olivia to Caleb”Afraid of what?” Caleb.”Of how vulnerable you make me.” Olivia.”I make you vulnerable because you love me. That’s the price you pay for love, baby girl.” Caleb.
Leah” Olivia says quietly, “if you point at me again I’m going to break that manicured finger right off your hand. Now turn around and smile, your daughter is waking up.
Humans seek connection above all else, and we are willing to destroy things to attain it.
You shouldn’t have to convince anyone to choose you. There is no real choice in love.
That’s the most pathetic part of being a human, the emotions you don’t ask for or want, they just rush you anyway.
We think we can control our lives, but our lives control us. And everything that touches our lives controls us. People have less power than they think they do. It’s just the reactions we control.
We are at that age that balances between independence and conferring with your friends about every miniscule decision you make. I’ve never liked that part of adolescence.
Tell me a truth, Senna.””I don’t know how.””Then tell me a lie.””I don’t love you.””The truth is for the mind,” he says. “Lies are for the heart. So let’s just keep lying.
That’s why writers write—to say things loudly with ink. To give feet to thoughts; to make quiet, still feelings loudly heard.
What did I get in return? Coldness and emotional detachment. You are selfish and bitter and you wouldn’t know a good thing if it fell out of the sky at your feet.
Was it me? Was I too cold? Too inexperienced? Not pretty enough? Not good enough in bed? And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves?
He was like a jalapeño, bright and smooth, but dangerously hot. A small part of me wanted to bite him.
What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?”“One is a choice, and one is not.
Don’t make someone burn, and then try to douse the flames with the things you should have done. Those regrets are gasoline not water.