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Everything was chocolate ice cream and kisses and wind.

Francesca Lia Block

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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Everything
Kisses
Cream
Ice
Chocolate
Kissing
Wind

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But be careful sand is already broken but glass breaks. The shoes are for dancing, not running away.
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She began to feel like the plastic doll she had been named after, without even a hole where her mouth was supposed to be.
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Once upon a time . . . What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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He said, You're so tiny, like a doll, you look like you might break. I wanted him to break me. Part of me did.
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War is being reminded that you are completely at the mercy of death at every moment, without the illusion that you are not. Without the distractions that make life worth living.
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Sometimes a wild horse needs to feel that his rider is just a little bit wilder.
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Everything was fine, but Weetzie wanted a baby. “How could you want one?” My Secret Agent Lover Man said. “There are way too many babies. And diseases. And nuclear accidents. And crazy psychos. We cant have a baby,” he said.
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At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
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You are my Marilyn. You are my lake full of fishes. You are my sky set, my 'Hollywood in Miniature,' my pink Cadillac, my highway, my martini, the stage for my heart to rock and roll on, the screen where my movies light up.
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I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.
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I dont know about happily ever after... but I know about happily, Weetzie Bat thought.
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Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.
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You make me feel like I have wings when you touch me.
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You asked me who I thought I was before. I said maybe I was a fish because I love water and you said, you thought a mermaid, maybe. If you were a mermaid, you said, if you were a mermaid, I was the sea.
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Relieved because what I dreaded most in the whole world was going to happen and I wouldn’t have to live with it anymore—the fear. There is the relief of finally not being alone and the relief of being alone when no one can take anything away from you. Here she was, my beautiful fear. Shiny as crystal lace frost.
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Love is a dangerous angel.
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I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.
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Our eyelashes brushed like they would weave together by themselves, turning us into one wild thing. I say, “I think I missed you before I met you even.
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I love Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. I also love more cerebral poets like H.D. and Emily Dickinson. My parents subscribed to a monthly poetry periodical, and as a teenager I was introduced to Denise Levertov, who was an influence.
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I didn't tell him that what I was most scared of, most haunted by, was something I didn't understand and could never run away from. It was myself.
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