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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Free
Thirteen
Words
Cling
Another
Letters
Stories
Four
Swirls
Truth
Belief
Ridges
Live
Dies
Tightly
Turns
Fingertips
Story
Bumps

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I don't know how i stay on my feet, why i dont just shatter into dust right there, why my heart keeps beating when i want it so badly to stop
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Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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I love you. They can't take it away.
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Is this freedom? Is it happiness? I don't know. I don't care anymore. It is different--it is being alive.
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There are more of us than you think.
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My heart shoots into my throat every time I think I see his loping walk, or catch sight of some floppy brown hair on a boy - but it's never him, and each time it isn't, my heart does a reverse trajectory down into the very pit of my stomach.
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I've been so used to thinking of what the borders are keeping out that I haven't considered that they're also penning us in.
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It's funny how you can know your friends so well, but you still end up playing the same games with them.
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....love and desire enjoy a symbiotic relationship, meaning that one cannot exist without the other. Desire is an enemy to contentment desire is illness, a feverish brain. Who can be considered healthy who wants? The very word want suggests a lack, an impoverishment, and that is what desire is: an impoverishment of the brain, a flaw, a mistake.
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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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that's what it was like waking up in the crypts. no-longer-dead. but without her. like burning alive.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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I’ve always hated being looked at.
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But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
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