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You are so intense. Like a storm. It's shocking how intense you are.

Francesca Lia Block

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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Shocking
Storm
Intense
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Let's not be afraid of anything that can't really hurt us.
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Maybe her own tears were the poison that made her grow.
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Any alphabet book for children where 'P is for Patti' Smith and 'X is for the women whose names we don't know' is something I can recommend, especially when the book is as well written, representationa lly diverse and vividly illustrated as this one.
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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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Love is the worst earthquake there is. Can crush you to the thickness of your bones. Love can be like cancer sometimes. Terminal. It can make you vomit. It can make you want to cut it out. It can take you over against your will.
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She had changed him. The ice was in his eyes and in his heart, like he had predicted with that song, but now they were deep embedded there, all the pain of the world. Not pain to make you feel for somebody else but pain to make you stop feeling.
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Sometimes I wanted to peel away all of my skin and find a different me underneath.
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I believe we recover from loss by facing the loss, grieving, going deep inside ourselves (hopefully with a guide) and re-emerging to live and love again.
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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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Beauty loved him more than anything, her Beast boy, but, secretly, sometimes, she wished he would have remained a Beast.
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Every girl is a goddess.
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Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you’ve split yourself open. And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays.
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I wanted to die, then. I wanted to destroy the body I was trapped in, become what she was, no matter what it took. No matter how much mutilation or pain. But he looked away, at me. He pulled my face down and pressed my lips against his like he was almost trying to suffocate us both.
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She pushed the gardener away and called for them. In her sleep she had seen love. It was poisoning. It was possessing. Devouring. Or it was seven pairs of boots climbing up the stairs to find her.
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Once upon a time . . . What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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Our stories can set us free. When we set them free.
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You're meant to have whatever your heart desires. Whatever your heart wants that much is already a part of you.
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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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Writing is literally transformative. When we read, we are changed. When we write, we are changed. It's neurological. To me, this is a kind of magic.
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You make me feel like I have wings when you touch me.
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