Amy Efaw Quotes

She can paint a pretty picture but this story has a twist. The paintbrush is a razor and the canvas is her wrist.

A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.

Devon stares at him standing there, remembering the only other guy had ever opened a car door for her.
Last summer. The sky was bright blue mirroring the water, the sun warm. A perfect day. He had smiled down at her; he'd That Look in his eyes- warm and eager and a little bit vulnerable. When he'd look at her in that way, and smile that tilted smile, her body would tingle with an electric tension that robbed her breath away.
That was then. And now?
Now she is here.

Devon? Are you okay?" For the first time, Dom's voice sounds unsure.
Devon sats nothing, not one word. She pushes herself up. She slides the papers toward herself. She slowly folds them into quarters. She closes her hand around them.
Devon lifts her face to Dom's.
Is she "okay"?
Will she ever, ever be okay?

Just because you don't say much doesn't mean people don't notice you. It's actually the quiet ones who often draw the most attention. There's this constant whirlwind of motion and sound all around, and then there's the quiet one, the eye of the storm.

In case you didn't know, dead people don't bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you're alive. It's irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.

Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.