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i could see the veins through your skin like a map to inside you. how could skin be that thin? i was so afraid you might drop and break. i stopped breathing so you wouldn't.
Francesca Lia Block
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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 63
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Skins
Afraid
Veins
Wouldn
Maps
Inside
Thin
Break
Drop
Might
Stopped
Like
Breathing
Skin
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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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At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
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Tinys do not deserve safety. If they are to prove themselves, they must suffer and die or suffer and survive.
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What happens to the rest of something when you smash its heart?
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Everything was chocolate ice cream and kisses and wind.
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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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It's scary to become a woman in this world. We have to understand that some of the messages we get, messages that we are not enough, are there to keep our power in check. We can't buy into these messages.
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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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You have to make your own family, your own life.
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It's important to tell your story. It's important to listen.
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You are so intense. Like a storm. It's shocking how intense you are.
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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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Everything is an illusion that is the whole thing about it - illusion, immitation, a mirage. It makes me too sad. Its having like a good dream, you know you are going to wake up.
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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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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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Maybe he was real. Maybe I'd made him up. Either way, he didn't think I needed him anymore. Maybe he was right.
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I wish I wasn’t a girl who needed so much but a little free creature that slept in deserts and ran on clouds and lived on lilies.
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I will not eat cakes or cookies or food. I will be thin, thin, pure. I will be pure and empty. Weight dropping off. Ninety-nine... ninety-five... ninety-two... ninety. Just one more to eighty-nine. Where does it go? Where in the universe does it go?
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You can't doubt so much, Psyche
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Once upon a time . . . What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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