Erika Thomas

“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
― Marilyn Monroe

“On the day of my first period, I was more dead doe than human woman. Was womanhood always so violent, raw?”
― Jade Song, Chlorine

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”
― Pablo Neruda

“Once the wrenching, gaping sounds came out of her, Nesta knew she could not stop.

She knelt on the shore of that mountain lake and let go entirely.

She allowed every horrible thought to hit her, wash through her. Let herself see Feyre's pale, devastated face as Nesta had revealed the truth, as she'd let her own anger and pain ride her.

She could never outlive it, her guilt. There was no point in trying. She sobbed into the darkness of her hands.

And then the stones clicked, and a warm, steady presence appeared beside her. He didn't touch her, but his voice was nearby as he said, 'I'm here.'

She sobbed harder at that. She couldn't stop. As if a dam had burst and only letting the water run its course, raging through her, would suffice.

'Nesta.' His fingers grazed her shoulder.

She couldn't bear that touch. The kindness in it.

'Please,' she said.

Her first word in five days.

He stilled. 'Please what?'

She leaned from him. 'Don't touch me. Don't- don't be kind to me.' The words were a sobbing, rippling jumble.

'Why?'

The list of reasons surged, fighting to get out, to voice themselves, and she let them decide. Let them flow through her, as she whispered, 'I let him die.'

He went quiet.

Through her hands on her face, she continued to whisper. 'He came to save me, and fought for me, and I let him die with hate in my heart. Hate for him. He died because I didn't stop it.' Her voice broke, and she wept harder. 'And I was so horrid to him, until the very end. I was so, so horrid to him all my life- and still he somehow loved me. I didn't deserve it, but he did. And I let him die.'

She bowed over her knees, saying into her palms, 'I can't undo it. I can't fix it. I can't fix that he is dead, I can't fix what I said to Feyre, I can't fix any of the horrible things I've done. I can't fix me.'

She sobbed so hard she thought her body would break with it. Wanted her body to come apart like a cracked egg, wanted what was left of her soul to drift away on the mountain wind.

She whispered, 'I can't bear it.'

Cassian said quietly, 'It isn't your fault.'

She shook her head, face still in her hands, as if it'd shield her from him, but he said, 'Your father's death is not your fault. I was there, Nesta. I looked for a way out of it, too. And there was nothing that could have been done.'

'I could have used my power. I could have tried-'

'Nesta.' Her name was a sigh- as if he were pained. Then his arms were around her, and she was being pulled into his lap. She didn't fight it, not as he tucked her against his chest. Into his strength and warmth.

'I could have found a way. I should have found a way.'

His hand began stroking her hair.

Her entire body, right down to her bones, trembled.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A ​Court of Silver Flames