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Beauty loved him more than anything, her Beast boy, but, secretly, sometimes, she wished he would have remained a Beast.
Francesca Lia Block
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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Beauty
Anything
Sometimes
Secretly
Would
Remained
Wished
Beast
Boys
Loved
More quotes by Francesca Lia Block
Our stories can set us free. When we set them free.
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There’s nowhere to escape,” Dobey said, jamming his hands into his pockets and staring into the Valley. That’s not true, baby,” said Desiree. She took his hands and pulled him to her, wrapping her legs around his torso. She could feel the sobs in both of them, but quiet, silenced by the kiss. They could escape inside each other.
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At least the girls in stories were alive before they died.
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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.
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I'll be inside the one who holds you. And then I won't be.
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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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You have to make your own family, your own life.
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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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Maybe her own tears were the poison that made her grow.
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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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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.
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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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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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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 any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.
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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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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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You can't doubt so much, Psyche
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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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Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.
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