334 Quotes by Ann Aguirre

The whole world is like Whitewall’s razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there’s no purpose to it.

I’ve heard if you pretend long enough – or maybe wish hard enough – faking normal becomes real. I’m counting on that. Until then, I’ll carry on.

He’s never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.

I think my head’s a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.

It’s only a sure defeat when you stop trying.

My heart hurt when I remembered him, but the alternative was forgetting, and that was the final kind of death – when nobody told your story anymore.

At its most basic level, the universe is beautiful.

I’ll always want him. Until every sun goes dark in every sky, until I am nothing more than long-forgotten cosmic dust, I will want him. And even then I suspect my particles will long for his.

We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound – that of glass breaking – until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.