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That's what I'll be. A silhouette, rarely seen, and yet believed in. Kaeleigh wants to believe in me. I am her twin, forever alive inside her. And when she needs me, I am always here.
Ellen Hopkins
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Ellen Hopkins
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: March 26
Novelist
Writer
Long Beach
California
Ellen Louise Hopkins
Seen
Silhouette
Alive
Silhouettes
Forever
Twin
Needs
Twins
Believe
Rarely
Always
Believed
Inside
Wants
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One foot in front of the other, counting tiles on the floor so I don't have to focus the blur of painted smiles, fake faces.
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Nonfiction speaks to the head. Fiction speaks to the heart. Poetry speaks to the soul. It's the essence of beauty. The essence of pain. It pleases the eye and the ear.
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But hey, I'm not exactly sold on the idea that love is, in fact, real. Will it find me one day, overtake me, infiltrate my life like sunlight snakes through the cold of morning? Can love thaw me? will it ever?
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What's the point of being a hero when everyone thinks you're a villain?
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Before you, I believed love was making love. Waiting only makes me love you more.
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I really have to wonder who or what made Daddy become this way. Babies aren't born cruel or filled with sick desire. Evil is not intrinsic. It's fashioned.
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Just keep on shining that light. The rest will take care of itself.
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Puzzle pieces don't always connect do they?
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Forever has no meaning when you're living in the moment. I wasn't ready for that moment to end.
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When all choice is taken from you, life becomes a game of survival.
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Think long and hard before offering your heart to someone who can only accept it part-time
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God wasn't love, couldn't be love. Because for me, love was a corpse.
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When the door to love opens, The window to control closes.
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I wish I were worthy of his love. (Any love.)I should tell him to run. But I can't. I need him.
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That's what I'll be. A silhouette, rarely seen, and yet believed in.
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I need to capture my sprite with trembling hands. Except I could crush her. Wonder how many small things of beauty - flowers, seashells, dragonflies - have met such a demise. Wonder how much fragile love has collapsed beneath the weight of confession.
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Religion is for followers... Followers and puppets.
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Perfect? How can you define a word without concrete meaning?
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