On the walls, there is nothing but white

I try to sleep,

Beneath the heavy pile of rainbow blankets.

Through the thin walls of the tiny flat,

I hear his stream hitting water

While he tries to drown the noise with the sink.

Behind me,

There’s an open window

Letting in residual rain smells

Allowing his sweat on my

Body to leave.

I sit up and let the cold air sink

In, and let him escape.

I have never been in love.

On the girl’s brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.

They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.

You know you’re a lit nerd when you have a favorite publishing company.