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It was always a relief when she came home to him. Like water or food. Like music or that moment when you cut yourself with a knife and squeeze the skin and no blood oozes out.
Francesca Lia Block
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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Came
Knife
Water
Knives
Moment
Relief
Moments
Skin
Home
Skins
Music
Cutting
Always
Blood
Oozes
Like
Food
Squeeze
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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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Welcome Beauty, banish fear.
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I saw my own blood and I thought, how could I live in a world where this exists- where love can become death?
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Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.
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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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Sometimes I wanted to peel away all of my skin and find a different me underneath.
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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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At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
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Love is a dangerous angel.
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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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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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I dont know about happily ever after... but I know about happily, Weetzie Bat thought.
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It's important to tell your story. It's important to listen.
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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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Wish on everything. Pink cars are good, especially old ones. And stars of course, first stars and shooting stars. Planes will do if they are the first light in the sky and look like stars. Wish in tunnels, holding your breath and lifting your feet off the ground. Birthday candles. Baby teeth.
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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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