I’ve always been like this. Hot blooded, teeth bared at anything as pretentious as false intimacy or even something as innocent as true affection. That rabbit heart kind that spooks easily and is loyal only to its next impulse. If you listen to that heart, you’ll always jump in blind, but if you listen to wolves you’ll always be running. And since I’m the way that I am, with just the most hypocritical democracy of head and heart, I have the distinct grief of indulging both at once.
“Murphy listened to him breathing and the sound of his blood rushing wherever it was going beneath her ear. She thought about when she was with him, when she touched him, she wasn’t touching his skin, but all the things Rex was, and all the things he’d seen and the things he knew how to do, and the ways he had shown her he was hers. She thought of the blood rushing its way through his heart.” —
“As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” —Pablo Neruda