Thirteen Reasons Why Quotes

No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same.

A lot of you cared, just not enough.

You can't stop the future You can't rewind the past The only way to learn the secret ...is to press play.

You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything. . . affects everything.

But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.

If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land. If my love were a desert, you would see only sand. If my love were a star- late at night, only light. And if my love could grow wings, I'd be soaring in flight.

Everything...affects everything

Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.

It's hard to be disappointed when what you expected turns out to be true.

If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don't want to cry anymore, you don't listen to that song anymore. But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

When you try rescuing someone and discover they can't be reached, why would you ever throw that back in their face?

A flood of emotions rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I hope you're ready, because I'm about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you're listening to these tapes, you're one of the reasons why.

I sat. And I thought. And the more I thought, connecting the events in my life, the more my heart collapsed.

I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew—someone I liked. I'm listening... but still, I'm too late.

You can hear rumors. But you can't know them.

I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn't agree with.

That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible.

After all, how often do we get a second chance?

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.

But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

Soul Alone by Hannah Baker I meet your eyes you don't even see me You hardly respond when I whisper hello Could be my soul mate two kindred spirits Maybe we're not I guess we'll never know My own mother you carried me in you Now you see nothing but what I wear People ask you how I'm doing You smile and nod don't let it end there Put me underneath God's sky and know me don't just see me with your eyes Take away this mask of flesh and bone and See me for my soul alone

I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.

Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.

Like driving along a bumpy road and losing control of the steering wheel, tossing you—just a tad—off the road. The wheels kick up some dirt, but you're able to pull it back. Yet no matter how hard you try to drive straight, something keeps jerking you to the side. You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.

Because when you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.

I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.

Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal to you Zach. But now, I hope you understand. My world was collapsing. I needed those notes. I needed any hope those notes might have offered. And you? You took that hope away. You decided I didn’t deserve to have it.

You don't know what goes on in anyone's life but your own.

Betrayal. It's one of the worst feelings.

Normally when a person has a stellar image another person's waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They're waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.

I left. When I should have stayed.

What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

And after I dropped him off, I took the longest possible route home... I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered neighborhoods entirely new to me. And finally... I discovered I was sick of this town and everything in it.

A week went by and nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.

Maybe if I forgot things once in a while, we'd all be a little bit happier.

It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down.

Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don’t understand. Thoughts that aren’t even true—that aren’t really how we feel—but they’re running through our heads anyway because they’re interesting to think about. If you could hear other people’s thoughts, you’d overhear things that are true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn’t know one from the other. It’d drive you insane. What’s true? What’s not? A million ideas, but what do they mean?

How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?

When you hold people up for ridicule, you have to take responsibility when other people act on it.

Do you remember the last thing you said to me? The last thing you did to me? And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me when I said it I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.

How in the world was I alone? Because I wanted to be. That's all I can say. It's all that makes sense to me.

Maybe you didn't know what people thought of you because they themselves didn't know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn't give us enough to go on, Hannah.

Here's a tip. If you touch a girl, even as joke, and she pushes you off, leave... her... alone. Don't touch her. Anywhere! Just stop. Your touch does nothing but sicken her.

But I need to wake up somehow. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe that’s the only way to get through today.

My breathing begins to slow. The tension in my muscles starts to relax. Then, a click in the headphones. A slow breath of air. I open my eyes to bright moonlight. And Hannah, with warmth. Thank you.

Hannah wasn't my first kiss, but the first kiss that mattered: the first kiss with someone who mattered.

Could be my soul mate / two kindred spirits / Maybe we're not / I guess we'll never / know

Everything seemed good, but I knew it had the potential to be awful.

I needed a break... from myself.

I was too weak to walk. At least, I thought I was too weak. But in truth, I was too weak to try.

My heart and my trust were in the process of collapsing. And that collapse created a vacuum in my chest.

We didn't get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.

And when you mess with one part of a person's life, you're not messing with just that part. When you mess with one part of a person's life, you're messing with their entire life.

He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

Watching those guys pummel each other so no one would suspect them of being weak was too much for me. Their reputations were more important than their faces.

Because I've heard so many stories that I don't know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.

Was I disappointed when you said good-bye to me? Not much. It's hard to be disappointed when what you expected turns out to be true.

Suicide. It's something I've been thinking about. Not too seriously, but I have been thinking about it.” That's the note. Word for word. And I know it's word for word because I wrote it dozens of times before delivering it. I'd write it, throw it away, write it, crumple it up, throw it away. But why was I writing it to begin with? I asked myself that question every time I printed the words onto a new sheet of paper. Why was I writing this note? It was a lie. I hadn't been thinking about it. Not really. Not in detail. The thought would come into my head and I'd push it away. But I pushed it away a lot.

His door is closed behind me. It's staying closed. He's letting me go. I think I've made myself very clear, but no ones stepping forward to stop me. A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that...that is what i needed to find out. And I did find out. And I'm sorry.

If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead... write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me. And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and know absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing...and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.

Don't give up on me now. I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm doing? Giving up?

There are some sick and twisted people out there, Alex – and maybe I’m one of them – but the point is, when you hold people up for ridicule, you have to take responsibility when other people act on it.

This time, for the first time, I saw the possibilities in giving up. I even found hope in it.

If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.

When you are done listening to all thirteen sides – because there are thirteen sides to every story – rewind the tapes, put them back in the box, and pass them on to whoever follows your little tale. And you, lucky number thirteen, you can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion, maybe I’ll see you there.

And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.

This was not a spurr-of-the-moment decision. Do not take me for granted... again.

And at some point, the struggle becomes too much-too tiring-and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.

We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia’s sake.

If you could hear other people's thoughts, you'd overhear things that are true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn't know one from the other. It'd drive you insane. What's true? What's not? A million ideas, but what do they mean?

Justin, honey, you were my very first kiss. My very first hand to hold. But you were nothing more than an average guy. And I don't say that to be mean- I don't. There was just something about you that made me need to be your girlfriend to this day I don't know exactly what that was. But it was there.. and it was amazingly strong. -Thirteen Reasons Why

I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind? No. Probably not. Because most of them can't be seen with the naked eye.

But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.

And everyone knows you can’t disprove a rumor.

To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

No one know for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue.

Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

And concentrating on the spot where the two spindles should be is the closest I get to looking Hannah's eyes as she tells my story.

No! I scream through the bars. Over the trees."No!" Do not let her leave. Do not let her leave that room! He's not coming.

Then come to realize that you're making mountains out of molehills. Realize how petty you've become. Sure, it may feel like you can't get a grip on this town. It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down. But you must stop being so pessimistic, Hannah, and learn to trust those around you. So I do. One more time.

I waited a second. Should I? No... but I will.

I'm sorry.

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

I can't believe I just heard the last words I'll ever hear from Hannah Baker. "I'm sorry." Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I'm sorry, I'm going to think of her.

It's nothing. A school project. My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project.

I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.

Will I ever get control of my life? Will I always be shoved back and pushed around by those I trust?

Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo. No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests. I hope you’re ready, because i’m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you’re listening to theses tapes, you’re one of the reasons why. Now, why would a dead girl lie?

She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much.

I guess that's the point of it all. No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same

But they were wrong. There was a reason.

That’s what i love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff were your not sure what the poets talking about. You may have an idea, but you cant be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings. Is it a stand-in ―a symbol for another idea? Does it fit into a larger, more hidden, metaphor? ...I hated poetry until someone showed me how to appreciate it. He told me to see poetry as a puzzle. Its up to the reader to decipher the code, or the words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.

It seemed like you could know me. Like you could understand anything I told you. And the more we spoke, I knew why. The same things excited us. The same things concerned us".

The longer you wait, and this is true, the slower the hands will move.

I don't know what's going on with you,' the man says from across the counter, 'but I'm not taking your money.' He blows into a straw and pinches both ends shut. I shake my head and reach back for my wallet. 'No, I'll pay.' He winds the straw tighter and tighter. 'I'm serious. It was only a milkshake. And like I said, I don't know what's going on, and I don't know how I can help, but something's clearly gone wrong in your life, so I want you to keep your money.' His eyes search mine, and I know he means it. I don't know what to say. Even if the words would come, my throat is so tight it won't let them escape.

I decided to find out how people at school might react if one of the students never came back.

Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to decide.

When you mess with one part of a person's life, you're messing with their entire life.

That’s when I said it. That’s when I whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.” Because inside, I felt so happy and sad at the same time. Sad that it took me so long to get there. But happy that we got there together.

That girl had two chances. And both of us let her down.

And I kept thinking, over and over, is this what it feels like to go insane?

Two steps behind her, I say her name. "Skye.

You don't need to watch out for me, Clay." But I did, Hannah. And I wanted to. I could have helped you. But when I tried, you pushed me away. I can almost hear Hannah's voice speaking my next thought for me. "Then why didn't you try harder?

¿Te diste cuenta de las cicatrices que dejabas detrás? No, probablemente no. Porque la mayoría de ellas son invisibles para el ojo humano.

Everything about it was false. Right then, in that office, with the realization that no one knew the truth about my life, my thoughts about the world were shaken.

Si escuchas una canción que te hace llorar y no quieres llorar más, no vuelves a escucharla. Pero no puedes huir de ti mismo. No puedes decidir no volverte a ver nunca más. No puedes apagar las voces de tu cabeza.

And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind? No. Probably not.

Things get better, or worse, depending on your point of view.

That is all that happened. Why did you hear something else?

Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed. But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party: Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh. I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. "Clay! Whatcha doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!

I didn't feel physically sick. But mentally. My mind was twisting in so many ways. (...) We once saw a documentary on migraines. One of the men interviewed used to fall on his knees and bang his head against the floor, over and over during attacks. This diverted the pain from deep inside his brain, where he couldn't reach it, to a pain outside that he had control over.

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.

The signs were all there, all over, for anyone willing to notice.

Step-by-step. That's how we'll get through this. One foot in front of the other.

I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked the boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the story, the whole story, right there.

If there's one thing I've still got, it's my memory. Which is too bad. Maybe if I forgot things once in a while, we'd all be a little bit happier.

The name sounds almost too perfect. And as I said, you look perfect, too. The only thing left... is to be perfect.

I wish I would die. I’ve thought those words many times. But it’s a hard thing to say out loud. It’s even scarier to feel you might mean it.

Unsure of what I was. An optimist? A pessimist? Neither. A fool.

God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.

Necesitaba un cambio, tal y como decían, así que cambié mi apariencia. La única cosa que todavía tenía bajo control.

Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?

Él lo hizo. Pero tú... y yo... dejamos que sucediera. Es nuestra culpa.

Even though I had a history with that house, it didn't matter. You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have...is now.

Nadie sabe con seguridad el impacto que tiene sobre la vida de los demás. A menudo no tenemos ni idea. Y aún así, hacemos las cosas exactamente igual.

¿Cuando intentas rescatar a alguien y descubres que no puedes llegar a él, ¿por qué te burlas en su cara de sus penas y preocupaciones?

Words too soft for me to hear at this distance. But in the end, the words reach me.

It reminded me of innocence. And I wanted my first kiss to be just that. Innocent.

All you really have.. ..Is now.

I was so anxious about what kind of kiss it would be-because my friends back home described so many types-and it turned out to be the beautiful kind. You didn't shove your tongue down my throat. You didn't grab my butt. We just held our lips together...and kissed.

Now, why would a dead girl lie? Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead girl lie? Answer: Because she can't stand up.

It seemed that I was the only one who cared about me.

I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right them and drag myself to the ivy.

It was one of those things where, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop noticing it.

Whenever I'm out late she makes a sandwich for my school lunch. I always protest and tell her not to, saying I'll make my own when I get home. But she likes it. She says it reminds her of when I was younger and needed her.

You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go.

Put me underneath God's sky and know me don't just look at me with your eyes Take away this mask of flesh and bone and see me for my soul alone

You can’t go back to how things were. How you thought they were.

Imagine ten or tweleve orange chairs arrainged in a circle, with the happy woen from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down. They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of-and I quote- "the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white." Seriously, that's how they descibed it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.

What everyone thought of me was out of my control.

What if you weren't the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide.

Even though I had a history in that house, it didn’t matter. You can’t go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have . . . is now.

Expose yourself," they said. "Let us see your deepest and your darkest." My deepest and my darkest? What are you, my gynecologist?

No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people - Hannah Baker

They wanted to teach us the meaning of x in relation to pi, as opposed to helping us better understand ourselves and each other. They wanted us to know when the Magna Carta was signed-never mind what it was-as opposed to discussing birth control.

And then… well… certain thoughts begin creeping around. Will I ever get control of my life? Will I always be shoved back and pushed around by those I trust? Will my life ever go where I want it to?

And like I said, I didn't know him very well, but my ears perked up whenever I heard his name. I guess I wanted to hear something - anything - juicy. Not because I wanted to spread gossip. I just couldn't believe someone could be that good. If he was actually that good... wonderful. Great! But it became a personal game of mine. How long could I go on hearing nothing but good things about Clay Jensen? Normally, when a person has a stellar image, another person's waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They're waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself. But not with Clay.

Definitely beats my first kiss. Seventh grade, Andrea Williams, behind the gym after school. She came over to my table at lunch, whispered the proposition in my ear, and I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.

I pretended not to notice him. Not because I had anything against him, but because my heart and my trust were in the process of collapsing. And that collapse created a vacuum in my chest. Like every nerve in my body was withering in, pulling away from my fingers and toes. Pulling back and disappearing.

I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered neighbourhoods entirely new to me. And finally... I discovered I was sick of this town and everything in it.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.

When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything . . . affects everything.

As the song goes, 'You are lost and gone forever, oh my darling, Valentine.'" [...] I’m listening to someone give up. Someone I knew. Someone I liked. I’m listening. But still, I’m too late.

If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t listen to that song anymore.

At the time, I just thought it might be fun. At the time, I was stupid.

30 minutes is a long time to wait for a Valentine's date.

Let someone take away any sense of privacy or security you might still possess. Then have someone use that insecurity to satisfy their own twisted curiosity.

Looking back, i stopped writting in my notebook when i stopped wanting to know myself anymore

Or deep down, maybe there was more. Maybe I wanted someone to figure out who wrote the note and secretly come to my rescue. Maybe. I don’t know. But I was careful never to give myself away.

Pero es más que sólo un arañazo. Es un puñetazo en el estómago y una bofetada en la cara. Es una puñalada en la espalda porque preferiste creer los falsos rumores que lo que sabías que era verdad.

A veces tenemos pensamientos que ni tan solo nosotros comprendemos. Pensamientos que ni tan siquiera son ciertos —ya que en realidad no nos sentimos así—, pero que se nos pasan por la cabeza de todas formas porque es interesante pensar en ellos.

The wonderful thing about a yearbook photo is that everyone shares the moment with you . . . forever.

In the end, everything matters.

Unanswered? I would've answered any question, Hannah. But you never asked.

One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong.

Everything seemed good, but I knew it had potential to be awful. Much much more painful than the others.

I was sick of this town and everything in it.

He’s always looking out windows, contemplating something.

You may think novelists always have fixed plans to which they work, so that the future predicted by Chapter One is always inexorably the actuality of Chapter Thirteen. But novelists write for countless different reasons: for money, for fame, for reviewers, for parents, for friends, for loved ones; for vanity, for pride, for curiosity, for amusement: as skilled furniture makers enjoy making furniture, as drunkards like drinking, as judges like judging, as Sicilians like emptying a shotgun into an enemy's back. I could fill a book with reasons, and they would all be true, though not true of all. Only one same reason is shared by all of us: we wish to create worlds as real as, but other than the world that is. Or was. This is why we cannot plan. We know a world is an organism, not a machine. We also know that a genuinely created world must be independent of its creator; a planned world (a world that fully reveals its planning) is a dead world. It is only when our characters and events begin to disobey us that they begin to live.

Hello boys and girls, Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo. No return engagements, no encore. And this time? Absolutely no requests.

But whatever the reason, it felt surreal

You don’t belong in the same way as the others. It’s like that song: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

When we were alone, it was so easy to talk to Hannah. It was so easy to laugh with her. But whenever people came around, I got shy. I backed off. I didn’t know how to act anymore.

If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don't want to cry anymore, you don't listen to that song anymore. But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

And like I said, I didn’t know him very well, but my ears perked up whenever I heard his name. I guess I wanted to hear something —anything— juicy. Not because I wanted to spread gossip. I just couldn’t believe someone could be that good.

Yes, there are major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn't figure out how to tell. Or couldn't bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven't come to grips with... that I'll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way trough.

If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land. If my love were a desert, you would see only sand. If my love were a star— late at night, only light. And if my love could grow wings, I’d be soaring in flight.

Quería que la gente confiara en mí, a pesar de todo lo que había oído. Y más que eso, quería que me conociesen. No lo que ellos pensaban que era, sino a la Hannah real. Quería que pasasen de los rumores. Que viesen más allá de las relaciones que tuve o que tenía, aunque no se fiasen de ellas. Y si quería que ellos confiasen en mí de ese modo, entonces tendría que hacer lo mismo por ellos, ¿no?

You don't know what goes on in anyone's life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person's life, you're not messing with just that part." ... "When you mess with one part of a person's life, you're messing with their entire life.

I was breaking. If only I’d talked to you sooner. We could have been … we could’ve … I don’t know. But things had gone too far by then. My mind was set. Not on ending my life. Not yet. It was set on floating through school. On never being close to anyone. That was my plan. I’d graduate, then I’d leave. But then, I went to a party. I went to a party to meet you. Why did I do that? To make myself suffer? Because that’s what I was doing – hating myself for waiting so long. Hating myself because it wasn’t fair to you.

You've heard of the butterfly effect, right? That if a butterfly flaps its wings at just the right time in just the right place. It can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away. It's chaos theory, but see, chaos theory isn't exactly about chaos. It's about how a tiny change in a big system can affect everything.

Nadie sabe lo que sucede en la vida de nadie, salvo en la propia. Y cuando le arruinas una parte de la vida a alguien, no le arruinas solo aquella parte. Desafortunadamente, no se puede ser tan preciso y selectivo. Cuando le arruinas una parte de su vida, le arruinas la vida entera.

Basically, even though Hannah admits that the decision to take her life was entirely her own, it’s also important to be aware of how we treat others. Even though someone appears to shrug off a sideways comment or to not be affected by a rumor, it’s impossible to know everything else going on in that person’s life, and how we might be adding to his/her pain. People do have an impact on the lives of others; that’s undeniable.

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings. Is it a stand-in―a symbol―for another idea? Does it fit into a larger, more hidden metaphor?

No one at school knows what I’m about to tell you. And it wasn’t really the class itself that played a part. Even if I never took Peer Communications, the outcome may very well have been the same. Or not. I guess that’s the point of it all. No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same.

With everything going on in my life – going on in my head – I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you?' We didn’t get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid that I had no chance with you. That’s what I thought. And I was fine with that. Because whit if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

But then something happened, Ray, something amazing. Something... "That white cop sitting next to me? He took a long look at my mother when she came in, just like, absorbed her, and then without even turning to me, he just put his hand on my back, up between my neck and shoulder... "And all he did was squeeze. Give me a little squeeze of sympathy, then rubbed that same spot with his palm for maybe two, three seconds, and that was it. "But I swear to you, nobody, in my entire life up to that point had ever touched me with that kind of tenderness. I had never experienced a sympathetic hand like that, and Ray, it felt like lightning. "I mean, the guy did it without thinking, I'm sure. And when dinnertime rolled around he had probably forgotten all about it. Forgot about me, too, for that matter... But I didn't forget. "I didn't walk around thinking about it nonstop either, but something like seven years later when I was at community college? The recruiting officer for the PD came on campus for Career Day, and I didn't really like college all that much to begin with, so I took the test for the academy, scored high, quit school and never looked back. "And usually when I tell people why I became a cop I say because it would keep Butchie and Antoine out of my life, and there's some truth in that. "But I think the real reason was because that recruiting officer on campus that day reminded me, in some way, you know, conscious or not, of that housing cop who had sat on the bench with me when I was thirteen. "In fact, I don't think it, I know it. As sure as I'm standing here, I know I became a cop because of him. For him. To be like him. God as my witness, Ray. The man put his hand on my back for three seconds and it rerouted my life for the next twenty-nine years. "It's the enormity of small things... Adults, grown-ups, us, we have so much power... And sometimes when we find ourselves coming into contact with certain kinds of kids? Needy kids? We have to be ever so careful...

I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they’d heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn’t agree with. And if I wanted people to treat me that way, then I had to do the same for them, right?

Ma’am.” The officer was already tired of the haughtiness of Ms. Headstrom. “You specifically sought out this particular group of people, who all had a particular criterion of being in the press for unfavorable reasons. Is that correct?” “Well, not all of them were for unfavorable reasons,” she tried to rationalize. “Some were associated with an unfavorable reason. It was a themed party. That was the theme. That was the only reason. Why else would I have brought them all to the house for a dinner?” “Exactly.

Poem - I meet your eyes. You don't even see me. You hardly respond when I whisper hello. Could be my soul mate, two kindred spirits. Maybe we're not. I guess we'll never know. My own mother, you carried me in you. Now you see nothing but what I wear. People ask you how I am doing. You smile and nod. Don't let it end there. Put me underneath God's sky and know me. Don't just see me with your eyes. Take away this mask of flesh and bone and see me for my soul, alone.

Long black hair and deep clean blue eyes and skin pale white and lips blood red she's small and thin and worn and damaged. She is standing there. What are you doing here? I was taking a walk and I saw you and I followed you. What do you want. I want you to stop. I breathe hard, stare hard, tense and coiled. There is still more tree for me to destroy I want that fucking tree. She smiles and she steps towards me, toward toward toward me, and she opens he r arms and I'm breathing hard staring hard tense and coiled she puts her arms around me with one hand not he back of my head and she pulls me into her arms and she holds me and she speaks. It's okay. I breathe hard, close my eyes, let myself be held. It's okay. Her voice calms me and her arms warm me and her smell lightens me and I can feel her heart beat and my heart slows and I stop shaking an the Fury melts into her safety an she holds me and she says. Okay. Okay. Okay. Something else comes and it makes me feel weak and scared and fragile and I don't want to be hurt and this feeling is the feeling I have when I know I can be hurt and hurt deeper and more terribly than anything physical and I always fight it and control it and stop it but her voice calms me and her arms warm me and her smell lightens me and I can feel her heart beat and if she let me go right now I would fall and the need and confusion and fear and regret and horror and shame and weakness and fragility are exposed to the soft strength of her open arms and her simple word okay and I start to cry. I start to cry. I want to cry. It comes in waves. THe waves roll deep and from deep the deep within me and I hold her and she holds me tighter and i let her and I let it and I let this and I have not felt this way this vulnerability or allowed myself to feel this way this vulnerability since I was ten years old and I don't know why I haven't and I don't know why I am now and I only know that I am and that it is scary terrifying frightening worse and better than anything I've ever felt crying in her arms just crying in her ams just crying. She guides me to the ground, but she doesn't let me go. THe Gates are open and thirteen years of addiction, violence, hell and their accompaniments are manifesting themselves in dense tears and heavy sobs and a shortness of breath and a profound sense of loss. THe loss inhabits, fills and overwhelms me. It is the loss of a childhood of being a Teeenager of normalcy of happiness of love of trust anon reason of God of Family of friends of future of potential of dignity of humanity of sanity f myself of everything everything everything. I lost everything and I am lost reduced to a mass of mourning, sadness, grief, anguish and heartache. I am lost. I have lost. Everything. Everything. It's wet and Lilly cradles me like a broken Child. My face and her shoulder and her shirt and her hair are wet with my tears. I slow down and I start to breathe slowly and deeply and her hair smells clean and I open my eyes because I want to see it an it is all that I can see. It is jet black almost blue and radiant with moisture. I want to touch it and I reach with one of my hands and I run my hand from the crown along her neck and her back to the base of her rib and it is a thin perfect sheer and I let it slowly drop from the tips of my fingers and when it is gone I miss it. I do it again and again and she lets me do it and she doesn't speak she just cradles me because I am broken. I am broken. Broken. THere is noise and voices and Lilly pulls me in tighter and tighter and I know I pull her in tighter and tighter and I can feel her heart beating and I know she can feel my heart beating and they are speaking our hearts are speaking a language wordless old unknowable and true and we're pulling and holding and the noise is closer and the voices louder and Lilly whispers. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.

Thank you," he said. "Welcome. Welcome especially to Mr. Coyle Mathis and the other men and women of Forster Hollow who are going to be employed at this rather strikingly energy-inefficient plant. It's a long way from Forster Hollow, isn't it?" "So, yes, welcome," he said. "Welcome to the middle class! That's what I want to say. Although, quickly, before I go any further, I also want to say to Mr. Mathis here in the front row: I know you don't like me. And I don't like you. But, you know, back when you were refusing to have anything to do with us, I respected that. I didn't like it, but I had respect for your position. For your independence. You see, because I actually came from a place a little bit like Forster Hollow myself, before I joined the middle class. And, now you're middle-class, too, and I want to welcome you all, because it's a wonderful thing, our American middle class. It's the mainstay of economies all around the globe!" "And now that you've got these jobs at this body-armor plant," he continued, "You're going to be able to participate in those economies. You, too, can help denude every last scrap of native habitat in Asia, Africa, and South America! You, too, can buy six-foot-wide plasma TV screens that consume unbelievable amounts of energy, even when they're not turned on! But that's OK, because that's why we threw you out of your homes in the first places, so we could strip-mine your ancestral hills and feed the coal-fired generators that are the number-one cause of global warming and other excellent things like acid rain. It's a perfect world, isn't it? It's a perfect system, because as long as you've got your six-foot-wide plasma TV, and the electricity to run it, you don't have to think about any of the ugly consequences. You can watch Survivor: Indonesia till there's no more Indonesia!" "Just quickly, here," he continued, "because I want to keep my remarks brief. Just a few more remarks about this perfect world. I want to mention those big new eight-miles-per-gallon vehicles you're going to be able to buy and drive as much as you want, now that you've joined me as a member of the middle class. The reason this country needs so much body armor is that certain people in certain parts of the world don't want us stealing all their oil to run your vehicles. And so the more you drive your vehicles, the more secure your jobs at this body-armor plant are going to be! Isn't that perfect?" "Just a couple more things!" Walter cried, wresting the mike from its holder and dancing away with it. "I want to welcome you all to working for one of the most corrupt and savage corporations in the world! Do you hear me? LBI doesn't give a shit about your sons and daughters bleeding in Iraq, as long as they get their thousand-percent profit! I know this for a fact! I have the facts to prove it! That's part of the perfect middle-class world you're joining! Now that you're working for LBI, you can finally make enough money to keep your kids from joining the Army and dying in LBI's broken-down trucks and shoddy body armor!" The mike had gone dead, and Walter skittered backwards, away from the mob that was forming. "And MEANWHILE," he shouted, "WE ARE ADDING THIRTEEN MILLION HUMAN BEINGS TO THE POPULATION EVERY MONTH! THIRTEEN MILLION MORE PEOPLE TO KILL EACH OTHER IN COMPETITION OVER FINITE RESOURCES! AND WIPE OUT EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ALONG THE WAY! IT IS A PERFECT FUCKING WORLD AS LONG AS YOU DON'T COUNT EVERY OTHER SPECIES IN IT! WE ARE A CANCER ON THE PLANT! A CANCER ON THE PLANET!