you have made a fair run of blocking fate’s path. but you cannot do it forever. the gods will not let you. here is a small fact: you are going to die.

you are not for the living. you are not for human kind.

i’d never been so happy as that moment … as i held hands with death.

a lot of people want to kill me. i take great pride in that.

take me back. make me into someone who has never been done harm. go as far as you can. make me brand—new. no bruises. no scars.

you are chaos incarnate. you are a tragedy in human skin. you never should have lasted as long as you have. you never should have lasted as long as you did.

my anger is not beautiful. it is cold and biting, bitter, all teeth. a wounded dog. i am desperate. that’s enough to make me something close to deadly.

the world burned me. now i’ll watch the world burn.

that was the problem, wasn’t it. you left home. but you never did become an adult. not really. you just fucked up in different and more complicated ways.

i am always ready to leave. there is not a single room in this world where i belong.

there’s defiance in your heart still, and the will to fight. you will not go down like this.

i am all teeth and claws, sharp and pointed. a thing like me can never be loved.

there is no monster like me.

i swear i will burn this city to the ground before i ever go out quietly.

there are no children anymore. only survivors. childhood and innocence are luxuries afforded to the privileged. not us.

i think i am angry. i think i’ve been angry for a long time.

she is fire. she is pain. she is a crack in the world through which something else—magic or god or the heat of every unanswered wish and impossible dream, burning eternal on the other side of everything—pours through.

there’s blood on your hands, i’m sorry i bleed.

you know what my mother used to call me? dangerous. “you’re a dangerous girl”. she was right.

i am sad and angry and i want everyone to be alive again.