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Caring too much could be dangerous I saw that now. But the alternative was no better.

Ann Aguirre

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Ann Aguirre
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: August 27
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
the United States of America
Ellen Connor
Ava Gray
Alternative
Alternatives
Caring
Saws
Dangerous
Better
Much

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He has to take me as I am, broken bits and all.
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I never belonged anywhere until I met you.
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With my partner beside me, I fear nothing, not even death.
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As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy’s thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can’t say I’ve heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer.
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I’m as forgiving as the wall you hit at two hundred kilometers an hour.
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His lashes, fluttered like butterfly wings. I could've made you happy, dove. You did, I whispered
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There were different kinds of strength. I knew that now. It didn't always come from a knife or a willingness to fight. Sometimes it came from endurance, where the well ran deep and quiet. Sometimes it came from compassion and forgiveness.
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There are quiet ways to die where the body just doesn’t notice that the heart is gone.
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I couldn't help what I'd done before I learned it was wrong. I could only do better in the future.
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Don't worry he tells me tenderly. It doesn't matter who you've been, who you are, or who you become. I'm with you every step of the way.
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I don’t like anyone knowing anything about me that I didn’t choose to tell them.
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But the world moves on, even when you don't want it to, even when change feels like the end of everything. It never stops.
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I know just how he feels that it’s come to this. Sometimes, love isn’t enough, even when it’s all you have.
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Love can make us do dreadful things.
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But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.
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Through the damp fabric of my coverall, bundled in my blanket, I feel naked. Raw. He sees more than I want, more than I can bear. It’s like standing before him ... while he stares at my scars, pitiless and unmoved.
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It's only a sure defeat when you stop trying.
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A divided heart offers a strange sensation.
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Sometimes I miss the old me.
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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.
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