Ellen Louise Hopkins (born March 26, 1955) is a novelist who has published several New York Times bestselling novels that are popular among the teenage and young adult audience.
Then I said it. He said it too. I love you. And everything that went before meant nothing.
He did seem like a nice boy. Seeming and being are two different things.
I don't love him, & he definitely doesn't love me. Still, he semi-fills a gaping black hole inside me. That place wants love, maybe even needs love, but love is something I"m pretty sure doesn't exist.
. . . what good would it do to shutter your windows, never dream of rainbows or find hope in promises? Why choose to walk away rather than hold your ground and fight for love?
Now that I have opened that bottle of memories they're pouring out like wine, crimson and bittersweet.
Wish you could turn off the questions, turn off the voices, turn off all sound. Yearn to close out the ugliness, close out the filthiness, close out all light. Long to cast away yesterday, cast away memory, cast away all jeapordy. Pray you could somehow stop uncertainty, somehow stop the loathing, somehow stop the pain. Act on your impulse, swallow the bottle, cut a little deeper, put the gun to your chest.
Never say never, dear. You might be surprised at what you can do, should circumstances dictate
But I so want to walk that razor's edge, Take feeling to a whole new level.
The stars shine as they always do. Same stars. Same sky. Only I am different.
Learning by example is valid, but when you have the information to know that turning in a certain direction can lead you to a very wrong place, most of the "blame" is on the individual.
Innocence eroded into nightmare. All because of very bad touch. Love, corrupted.
I can see why she feels left behind. Maybe even discarded. Is that why she refuses to accept my love and return it? Afraid that love doesn't last? Doesn't really exist? Afraid if her own father can withdraw his love (or at least the manifestation of his love), that maybe she somehow isn't worthy of the emotion?
In my limited realm of experience, beginnings led to endings.
Our meeting, touching, accidentally connecting immediately, interwoven hand-in-hand, heart-to-heart.
Kaeleigh, queen of passive, all the time saying no, but not strong enough to mean it.
The truth is, I don't have a real clue what love is - how to find it, how to give it. Once upon a time I thought I knew.
The monster likes to talk; he jumps into your head and opens your mouth, making it spout your deepest darkest deceptions. Making you say all the things you'd rather not say, at least not in mixed company. " (Ellen Hopkins)
Funny thing, your brain, how it always functions on one level or another. How, even stuck in some sort of subconcious limbo, it works your lungs, your muscle twitches, your heart, in fact, in symphony with your heart, allowing it to feel love. Pain. Jealousy. Guilt. I wonder if it’s the same for people, lost in comas. Is there really such a thing
Starving for a high, a place to hang out inside my own head. Starving for touch. Pain, even. A way to feel. I need to feel.
Religion is for followers. . . Followers and puppets.