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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.

Francesca Lia Block

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Francesca Lia Block
Age: 63
Born: 1962
Born: January 3
Editor
Novelist
Poet
Writer
LA
California
Didn
Right
Real
Made
Way
Anymore
Think
Needed
Thinking
Either
Maybe

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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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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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Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.
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Magic can be found in stolen moments.
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You make me feel like I have wings when you touch me.
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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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Think of your pain like a bunch of red roses, a beautiful thorn necklace. Everyone has one.
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You are so intense. Like a storm. It's shocking how intense you are.
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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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Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.
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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'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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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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Everything was chocolate ice cream and kisses and wind.
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I dont know about happily ever after... but I know about happily, Weetzie Bat thought.
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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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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 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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Once upon a time . . . What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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The wishes might not come true the way you think they will, not everything will be perfect, but love will come because it always does, because why else would it exist and it will make everything hurt a little less. You just have to believe in yourself.
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