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We're all human. Even if some of us are told that we are not. Even if some of us are targeted for extermination. In the end, we manage to exist.

'Here is my hand,' he said. 'Here is my hand that will not harm you.'

Sticks and stones was the rhyme that they taught us to fight off our monsters, to help numb the darkness, but what they forgot was you don't need to break my bones for you to break me.

Demons have cracked their halos and drink the light.

I was born in the shadows of preachers and saints, I was raised in a house of God… But the blood on my lips and the dirt on my face is all the religion I've got.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Why are my organs trying to escape this broken cage? Then I learned that this pounding can't be love. That it can't be love, that it can't be. Why are we always separated by bulletproof walls? Then I learned that this emptiness could be love. That it could be love, it must be.

I don't know what to do without you. I don't know where to put my hands.

When things are the worst, and I don't want to live, I think of this. I do believe that you survive these things so you can tell their stories. You fight for your right to tell your side of the story.

All my grief says the same thing: This isn't how it's supposed to be. This isn't how it's supposed to be. And the world laughs.

Eddie thinks to himself that it isn't her, and it definitely isn't him, and he keeps that thought tucked firmly against the back of his teeth and bites down so hard that it can't escape, just like all the truest parts of himself.

My mother was Catholic. She says the crucifix on the wall reminds us that Jesus loves us. Our savior's body, beaten and flayed... How much torture will make my body holy? How much pain will say 'I love you'? Suffering and sacrifice is the only love language we will ever speak.

I am aware of my nature as a monster, and it eats me up inside to know that I'm unworthy of gods' love.

Mother. Eat me and give birth to me again. This time around I'll make you proud.

I just wanted to let you know I'm sorry, too. Neither of us wanted it to end up this way.

No, Dad! You're right. When will I grow up? When will I stop squandering all these opportunities, which you so kindly forced me into?

My heart catches on every thorn; you're already halfway out the door. And I've never looked so old, and I have never been so cold. And it is 85 degrees... I don't know what I need.

The internet is a living, breathing organism that needs outrage to stay alive.

Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.

Did you know? When a person passes away, the information they have shared on the internet may remain there for years. While social networking accounts are often deleted by relatives or inactivity failsafes, other information is left behind indefinitely.