Watch Me Tahereh Mafi Quotes

The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Killing time isn't as difficult as it sounds. I can shoot a hundred numbers through the chest and watch them bleed decimal points in the palm of my hand. I can rip the numbers off a clock and watch the hour hand tick tick tick its final tock just before I fall asleep. I can suffocate seconds just by holding my breath. I've been murdering minutes for hours and no one seems to mind.

i would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her, and if that's not enough for you, you can go to hell.

Watching her talk to someone else made me crazy. I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that she might be the only person in the world I could really care about.

I don't think you're crazy." The world is blurring away as I watch it through the window. "And I don't think that you're a psychopath. I also don't think you're a sick, twisted monster. I don't think that you're a heartless murderer, and I don't think you deserve to die, and I don't think you're pathetic. Or stupid. Or a coward. I don't think you're any of the things people have said about you.

Incredible. He left me bleeding all over his living floor. What a nice little present for his son to clean up. What a nice little lesson for his son to learn. Fall in love, and you get to watch your love get shot.

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Everyday it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Doll Hands is a serial killer. My pants were getting tight over a serial killer. Kenji is going to love this.

I would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her

The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do.

Growing up with these two has ruined me for regular relationships. I want what they have

Aaron Warner Anderson is a living legend.

I'm living Kenji's dream right now," I whisper, still petting the bird's head. "Except for all the blood, I'm basically a fairy-tale prince. All I need is a musical number and a fairy godmother.

Hate that Warner is probably right, that profanity is probably a failure of the mind, that only idiots need to rely on foul language to express themselves properly-or whatever stupid shit he said to Adam that one time.

You live your life as if nothing can hurt you even though your body is covered in scars

I should've know for sure it was a trap a few beats earlier, when they sent a gorgeous murder into my cell to distract me with her gorgeousness.

No one will ever know the violence it took to become this gentle. —Unknown

In my dreams I am safe; I have a strong hand to hold; a door to lock against the dark; a trusted ear into which I whisper my fears. In my dreams I am patient and kind; I have room in my heart for more pain than my own. I am not afraid to smile at strangers. I have never witnessed death.

I watch him walk away with the only family he has left and I know why Adam joined the army. I know why he suffered through being Warner's whipping boy. I know why he dealt with the horrifying reality of war, why he was so desparate to run away, so ready to run way as soon as possible. Why he's so determined to fight back. He's fighting for so much more than himself.

Because I was dying. 　　And Warner could’ve let me die. He was angry and hurt and had every reason to be bitter. I’d just ripped his heart out; I’d let him believe something would come of our relationship. I let him confess the depth of his feelings to me; I let him touch me in ways even Adam hadn't. I didn't ask him to stop. 　　Every inch of me was saying yes. 　　And then I took it all back. Because I was scared, and confused, and conflicted. Because of Adam. 　　Warner told me he loved me, and in return I insulted him and lied to him and yelled at him and pushed him away. And when he had the chance to stand back and watch me die, he didn’t. 　　He found a way to save my life. 　　With no demands. No expectations. Believing full well that I was in love with someone else, and that saving my life meant making me whole again only to give me back to another guy. 　　And right now, I can’t say I know what Adam would do if I were dying in front of him. I’m not sure if he would save my life. And that uncertainty alone makes me certain that something wasn't right between us.

It’s simple logic: if we believe our choices are our own—if we do not know we are being bent into obeisance—we will not be tempted to revolt.

I don’t like people,” says Winston. “I know this about myself. It’s just that I forget I don’t like people until I actually meet people, and then I remember why I never meet people. It’s because I don’t like them.

I know that she's right-handed? She recently discovered she doesn't like tomatoes? Direct sunlight sometimes makes her sneeze?

Killing time isn't as difficult as it sounds. I can shoot a hundred numbers through the chest and watch them bleed decimal points in the palm of my hand.

There's a rage that lives inside me ... The rage of a child still too young to fight the monsters when they came calling.

That’s like telling water not to be wet,” Kenji mutters, crunching popcorn again. “This man lives to worry about you. It’s his favorite thing to do. Between worrying about you and talking about you and frolicking through fields aggressively shouting your name at wildlife, I’m surprised the man has any time left to fuck with the world.

When there's something you want but can't have, you can be patient or creative. Choose a path.

What makes you think I have any leverage over her?” “Because she’s been saying your name in her dreams.” A shock of pleasure moves through me. Automatic endorphin rush. “What? Really?” “No.” “Wow, okay, fuck you.” Warner actually smiles. It’s one of his rare grins, dimples appearing and disappearing just to mess with your head. He goes from murderer to boy next door to murderer in two seconds flat. “Look how disappointed you are,” he says softly. “How delighted you were when you thought a minion of The Reestablishment, sent here to kill you and your entire family, was having inappropriate dreams about you.

Stand down,” he shouts, his voice booming. “Stop the vehicle immediately.” James pops his bloodied head out the open door. “What’d you say?” “I said stop-” James leans farther out the door, revealing a sophisticated automatic rifle. “I was just kidding, dumbass,” he calls back. “I heard what you said.” James opens fire.

The question of the next generation will not be one of how to liberate the masses, but rather, how to make them love their servitude. - Aldous Huxley

And your girl,” he says, cocking his head at me. “Your Juliette?” I flinch at the sound of her name. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like a whisper. “If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?” He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?

We can really be together," he says to me, undeterred by my silence. He pulls me close, too close. I'm frozen in five hundred layers of fear. Stunned in grief, in disbelief. His hands reach for my face, his lips for mine. My brain is on fire, ready to explode from the impossibility of this moment. I feel like I'm watching it happen, detached from my own body, incapable of intervening. More than anything else, I'm shocked by his gentle hands, his earnest eyes. "I want you to choose me," he says. "I want you to choose to be with me. I want you to want this.

And that was it. There was nothing we could do. We just had to stand there, watching as they dropped bombs on thirty years of work, killed everyone too young or too old to fight back, and then massacred the rest of our team on the field.” He clenches his hand around mine. “I come back here every day,” he says. “Hoping someone will show up. Hoping to find something to take back.” He stops then, voice tight with emotion. “And here you are. This shit doesn’t even seem real.” I squeeze his fingers—gently, this time—and huddle closer to him. “We’re going to be okay, Kenji. I promise. We’ll stick together. We’ll get through this.

A rusted shovel. I’ll cut off his head with a rusted shovel. Dull, impractical. It’ll take forever. He’ll scream endlessly.

But watching her talk to someone else made me crazy. I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that she might be the only person in the world I could really care about.

You know what’ll fuck you up? Watching adults terrorize children over and over again.

He’s wearing Lavender. He’s the only guy I know who can wear a lavender crewneck and still be terrifying.

People have too many problems of their own. Those who reek of neediness are pariahs; there’s no faster path to isolation than to ask for help.

And I have a theory," she went on, "that if I were badly wounded, you would help me. True or false?" He went silent. He was silent so long Alizeh had time enough to watch a drop of dew drip off a glossy green leaf. "True or false, Cyrus?" She heard his uneven exhale, the raw edge to his voice when he said, irritably, "False." The nosta flashed cold. "Liar," she whispered.

I couldn’t look away. I sat there, transfixed, nerves stretched thin, as she touched one hand to the wall and counted. 4,572. I watched her count. To 4,572. It took five hours.

She turns pink. Almost all of her turns pink. It’s fucking adorable. I want to die.

You smell like apple,” she whispers, and I’m actually about to smile when she slits my throat. Motherfucker.

Taller than you?” Warner sits up in his chair, his eyes flashing. “You’re right,” I say, darting up the stairs. “I crossed a line. Won’t happen again—

You didn’t eat the chocolate and now look at you—you’re dead.

She wanted to visit you in recovery, but the doctor says she shouldn’t be exposed to idiots. They think it might be contagious.

People don't really send letters anymore," he says to the rodent, ripping open the envelope. "Not unless they want to say something really-" James's eyebrows fly upward, the words dying in his throat as he unsheathes the shimmery card from its sleeve. I watch, paralyzed, as his eyes move across the page. He lifts his head sharply, scowling at the squirrel as he says- "Who the fuck is Sebastian? She's really getting married? The serial killer is getting married next week to some douchebag named Sebastian Alastair von Douchebag the Fourth? The hot ones are always taken." James mutters to the squirrel

I sit by the window and watch the rain and the leaves and the snow collide. They take turns dancing in the wind, performing choreographed routines for unsuspecting masses. The soldiers stomp stomp stomp through the rain, crushing leaves and fallen snow under their feet. Their hands are wrapped in gloves wrapped around guns that could put a bullet through a million possibilities. They don’t bother to be bothered by the beauty that falls from the sky. They don’t understand the freedom in feeling the universe on their skin. They don’t care.

I always wanted revenge against the rebels responsible for the destruction of my life and the upheaval of the world—even as I found the actions of my own regime to be worse than despicable. I aligned myself with what I believed to be the lesser of two evils, trusting that no government could be trusted.

He's faster than I am; stronger; smiling as he dodges my imperfect shot. Blood is now smeared across his face, streaked through his hair. His clothes drip as he walks, his boots leaving red footprints along the white floors. He's wounded in several places but this fact doesn't seem to bother him. In fact he seems delighted. There's no one left to kill but me. The inmate winks at me. "Looks like we're finally alone, beautiful" I fire again.

It feels like I’m being assaulted by a flower.

After so many years being dead inside, James makes me feel alive.

Write that down. Remember this moment. Hell, make it the title of your memoir: Being Human Makes You Weak, by Aaron Warner Anderson.

Warner told me he loved me, and in return I insulted him and lied to him and yelled at him and pushed him away. And when he had the chance to stand back and watch me die, he didn't. He found a way to save my life. With no demands. No expectations. Believing full well that I was in love with someone else, and that saving my life meant making me whole again only to give me back to another guy

says James interrupting my reverie if you're going to pretend to go through the motions, you need to work on the details. You carry the notebook around but you never carry a pen. You're not fooling anyone. I say softly I've been fooling people all my life. You're the only one paying attention.

I decide to panic.

No one wants a dandelion. They crop up all over the place, ugly and unfortunate, an average blossom in a world desperatly seeking beauty. They're weeds, people say. They're uninteresting and offer no fragrance and there are too many of them, too much of them, we don't want them, destroy them. Dandelions are a nuisance, We desire the buttercups, the daffodils, the morning glories. We want the azalea, the poinsettia, the calla lily. We pluck them from our gradens and plant them in our homes and we don't seem to remember their toxic nature. We don't seem to care that if you get too close? if you take a small bite? The beauty is replaced wit pain and laced with a posion that laughs in your blood, destroys your organs, infevts your heart. But pick a dandelion. Pick a dandelion and make a salad, eat the leaves, the flower, the stem. Thread it in your hair, plant it in the ground and watch it thrive. Pick a dandelion and close your eyes make a wish blow it into the wind. Watch it change the world.

She’s got these soft, grayish eyes I don’t know how to describe. It’s not even about her eyes, really. It’s not the color or the shape. It’s more about the way she looks at me, like I’m brand-new, like each time she sees me it’s the first time, like it blows her mind.

I've never been on one of these things before." My seatmate seems unimpressed, but he's been dead for at least twenty minuets now, so no surprise there. Earlier I found a roll of mints, some kind of diet milkshake, and two chocolate bars taped together with a note that read 'You're better than this' in the glove box. I jam the remaining half of the chocolate bar into my mouth now, chewing thoughtfully. I glance at Jeff. "You were to hard on yourself, man. You didn't eat the chocolate and now look at you-you're dead." I rip open the second chocolate bar, take a huge bite, then inspect the label on the diet milkshake. "What is this shit, Jeff? Why were you drinking this garbage?

Hey, I didn’t know you liked jelly beans. You’ve been holding out on us. You should join us for snack time—” “They’re for my wife.” “What? You’re wife? You’re married? Congrats, man. I had no idea. You literally never mention it.” “Shut up.

Stand down,” he shouts, his voice booming. “Stop the vehicle immediately.” James pops his bloodied head out the open door. “What’d you say?” “I said stop-” James leans farther out the door, revealing a sophisticated automatic rifle. “I was just kidding, dumbass,” he calls back. “I heard what you said.” James opens fire.

I don't mind his questions, I really don't. It's just strange to have someone to talk to. It's strange to have to exert energy to move my lips to form words necessary to explain my actions. No one has cared for so long. No one's watched me closely enough to wonder why I stare out if a window. No one has ever treated me like an equal.

James.

Or do you need more time alone with your delusions?

I want to go back to the person I was five minutes ago.

For what it's worth, Jeff, I fucking love lasagna. Jeff screams.

The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it's a different version of itself.

The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Warner loves me, too. Sometimes it’s a little too much, you know? It’s always Oh my God, Kenji, you’re amazing, you’re my best friend, don’t tell Juliette but I love you the most—” “How is it that every time you speak, you have food in your mouth?” “Don’t exaggerate because you’re jealous. If you want popcorn, all you have to do is ask.” “I shouldn’t have to ask. You’re supposed to offer.

She’s so fucking beautiful. I’d never seen her in normal clothes, and now I wish I never had. She looks even more ethereal in these soft colors and fabrics. Her platinum hair is in a long, messy braid, and she keeps batting loose strands away from her face. Her cheeks are pinker. Her skin and eyes are brighter, more alive. She’s sitting in bed in white socks, knees pulled up to her chin, and she’s both effortlessly stunning and deeply unaware of the havoc she’s wreaking on my nervous system. She doesn’t look capable of hurting a dust mote.

The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

I would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her, and if that’s not enough for you, you can go to hell.

Wow, great. Doll Hands is a serial killer. My pants were getting tight over a serial killer. Kenji is going to love this.

This, needless to say, makes him the polar opposite of Kenji, who loves to eat everything, all the time, and who later told me that watching Warner eat a cookie made him want to cry.

If you’re watching this program right now, I’d encourage you to ask yourself this: What would Aaron Warner Anderson do? Because that’s the question I’m about to answer. And he taught me everything I know.

Warner told me he loved me, and in return I insulted him and lied to him and yelled at him and pushed him away. And when he had the chance to stand back and watch me die, he didn’t. He found a way to save my life. With no demands. No expectations. Believing full well that I was in love with someone else, and that saving my life meant making me whole again only to give me back to another guy. And right now, I can’t say I know what Adam would do if I were dying in front of him. I’m not sure if he would save my life. And that uncertainty alone makes me certain that something wasn’t right between us. Something wasn’t real.

They really don’t know how to kill me, do they?” “They’re not trying to kill you. You’re worth more alive than dead.” “You know, beautiful girls are always saying things like that to me. It’s starting to go to my head.

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do.

Summer is like a slow-walker bringing everything in the world to boil 1 degree at a time. The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Everyday it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, I also think Warner’s idea is solid. This Rosabelle girl is”—he blows out a breath—“yeah, she’s, wow. You should absolutely pretend to best friend the girl who (a) murdered you, and (b) threw up all over you. The results will be adorable.

I keep going: “But there are other ways to connect with people.” “What do you mean?” “You know,” I say, popping a piece of lettuce into my mouth. “Like, just paying attention. I pay attention to you.” She turns pink. Almost all of her turns pink. It’s fucking adorable. I want to die.

says James interrupting my reverie if you're going to pretend to go through the motions, you need to work on the details. You carry the notebook around but you never carry a pen. You're not fooling anyone. I say softly I've been fooling people all my life. You're the only one paying attention.

Why’d you call for a meeting if you’re not even going to talk to me?” “I didn’t call this meeting,” says Kenji. “Warner did. And we’re ten minutes early, so technically the meeting hasn’t started yet. This is snack time.” “Yeah,” says Winston around a bite of apple. “This is snack time. We work hard for snack time.

Which means right now, I'm watching him bench-press three hundred and fifteen pounds. Three forty-five pound plates on each side of what Kenji told me is an Olympic bar, which weighs an additional forty-five pounds. I can't stop staring. I don't think I've every been more attracted to him in all the time I've known him.

[...] He just stood there, and I watched the gentle motions of his chest as he breathed, in and out, up and down, and I felt a faint spinning in my head, and like my body had overheated, and my heart would not stop, could not stop racing and finally he whispered the words – without touching me, without even looking at me – he said, “I just need to know,” he said, “are you feeling this, too?” He looked up, then. Looked me in the eye. I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t remember how. But he must’ve found something in my eyes because he suddenly exgaled, soflty; he glanced, just once, at my lips, and he stepped back. Grabbed his bag. And left. I wasn’t sure I would ever recover.

Warner told me he loved me, and in return I insulted him and lied to him and yelled at him and pushed him away. And when he had the chance to stand back and watch me die, he didn't. He found a way to save my life. With no demands. No expectations. Believing full well that I was in love with someone else, and that saving my life meant making me whole again only to give me back to another guy

Summer is like a slow-cooker bringing everything in the world to a boil 1 degree at a time. It promises a million happy adjectives only to pour stench and sewage into your nose for dinner. I hate the heat and the sticky, sweaty mess left behind. I hate the lackadaisical ennui of a sun too preoccupied with itself to notice the infinite hours we spend in its presence. The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The mood understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Then, with a force that takes my breath away, I finally understand. In a moment of pure, undiluted panic, I finally understand. This is why I keep making mistakes around him— This is what’s wrong with me— This is why I can’t seem to die and stay dead, why my skin keeps burning, my heart keeps racing, my head keeps spinning— He is what’s wrong with me. After so many years being dead inside, James makes me feel alive.

Look,” I say, shouting a little over the chaos. “I don’t love this situation, either. It feels really weird to hit a girl. But considering the fact that you just murdered me a minute ago, I think I’m entitled to retribution. So I’m giving you two options: show me how to get out of here, or hand over your knife.” “Go to hell.” “Did one of those broken ribs puncture a lung? Can you feel yourself dying?” “Have you ever had your intestines ripped out of your body? I hear it’s excruciating.

I want you to know,” I tell him, “that I don’t think you’re crazy.” “What?” He startles. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” The world is blurring away as I watch it through the window. “And I don’t think you’re a psychopath. I also don’t think you’re a sick, twisted monster. I don’t think you’re a heartless murderer, and I don’t think you deserve to die, and I don’t think you’re pathetic. Or stupid. Or a coward. I don’t think you’re any of the things people have said about you.” I turn to look at him. Warner is staring out the windshield. “You don’t?” His voice is so soft and so scared I can scarcely hear it. “No,” I say. “I don’t. And I just thought you should know. I’m not trying to fix you; I don’t think you need to be fixed. I’m not trying to turn you into someone else. I only want you to be who you really are. Because I think I know the real you. I think I’ve seen him.” Warner says nothing, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t care what anyone else says about you,” I tell him. “I think you’re a good person.

[...] He just stood there, and I watched the gentle motions of his chest as he breathed, in and out, up and down, and I felt a faint spinning in my head, and like my body had overheated, and my heart would not stop, could not stop racing and finally he whispered the words – without touching me, without even looking at me – he said, “I just need to know,” he said, “are you feeling this, too?” He looked up, then. Looked me in the eye. I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t remember how. But he must’ve found something in my eyes because he suddenly exhaled, soflty; he glanced, just once, at my lips, and he stepped back. Grabbed his bag. And left. I wasn’t sure I would ever recover.

If she's not driving me up a wall she's driving me insane. Sometimes all she does is look at me. I never know what to do when she does this, so I just sit there as she stares, her eyes raking over every inch of me, wondering what the hell she's thinking and knowing she'll never tell me. Sometimes she won't speak for so long the silence begins to make me sweat. I wake up thinking about her. I fall asleep thinking about her. I accidentally brushed against her going through a doorway and the way my body reacted you'd think she'd pinned me the wall and offered to unzip my pants. I had to leave the building just to get some air. I've started dreaming about her. I wake up in the middle of the night overheated and out of my mind. I've had trouble sleeping all my life-but this might be the worst sleep I've had in years.

Here is my question," she said. "If you cannot bear to be near me now, how will you survive what's yet to come?» Now he did look at her, his breath catching as he stared into her eyes, soft and gleaming in the reflected moonlight. He seemed to sink into the grass as he gazed at her, the world blurring beyond the space she occupied. There was something so gentle about her presence, something that reminded him of magic: all curves, no edges. He wanted to press his face against her neck, wanted to breathe in the fragrance of her skin, the perfume of the flowers he'd grown himself. He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to bring her tea and walk with her through the seasons. He wanted to watch her conquer the earth. He wanted to glide his hand down her naked back, wanted to taste the salt of her, wanted to bite her bottom lip and lose himself inside her. God, the things he wanted. The longer he looked at her, the worse he felt, and the more unsteady she appeared. Her breaths had grown shallow, her eyes deeper; darker. "Cyrus," she whispered

I'd finally crossed my arms and said, "Are you going to do this forever? Seriously? You're just going to sit there and stare at me and give me nothing? What's your favorite color, Rosabelle? Can you tell me your favorite color? Or is that some kind of highly protected trade secret you can't speak into the world for fear of inciting a new world war?" and then she laughed at me, and then I had a stroke. I actually felt the blood drain from my face. My hands went hot, then clammy. It was a soft, musical sound of delight I'd never heard from her. Hell, I'd never even seen her smile before. She was still smiling when she looked at me after that, the gentle expression lin- gering on her face. My fucking soul left my body. I'd always thought she was gorgeous, but I had no idea what I was missing. The way her eyes lit up, the way her nose wrinkled. She's been eating more every day, looking healthier, growing only more radiant. "Wow," I'd whispered, gaping at her like an idiot discovering his hands for the first time. And then, realizing I'd said the word out loud, I reached inside myself and put my fist through my brain.

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what is means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered with imperfections.

He glanced up at me, glanced back at his work, whispered a quiet thank you, and ate the cookie with a knife and fork. He didn’t even seem to enjoy it. This, needless to say, makes him the polar opposite of Kenji, who loves to eat everything, all the time, and who later told me that watching Warner eat a cookie made him want to cry.

I would happily watch the world go up in flames, if something happened to her, if that’s not enough for you, you can happily go to hell

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves.It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The mood understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone, Cratered by imperfections.

watched a father slap his 8-year-old son in the face. I watched Adam fall to the floor and

Sometimes I think the shadows are moving. Sometimes I think someone might be watching. Sometimes this idea scares me and sometimes the idea makes me so absurdly happy I can’t stop crying. And then sometimes I think I have no idea when I started losing my mind in here. Nothing seems real anymore and I can’t tell if I’m screaming out loud or only in my head. There’s no one here to hear me. To tell me I’m not dead. —AN EXCERPT FROM JULIETTE’S JOURNALS IN THE ASYLUM