Quotes About Vulnerability

What kind of idiot breaks all his bones at the precise moment his damsel needs him the most?

Me under her, behind her. Driving up into her. What will she do? Say? How does she sound when she comes?

If she makes a single misstep, you're dead." I feel the blood drain from my face. I always misstep. Misstep is my middle name, right after Mega. I can't not misstep. I have feet.

She's brilliant and kind and has the heart of a warrior but she doesn't have ice and razor blades inside where your soul is supposed to be. She loves. And she doesn't know how to take it back when you have to, because sometimes you sure as feck have to.

Men. Do they all evade as first line of defense?

This is my idea of a sex dream? Clearly, I need more practice. Scrambling to the edge of the bed, she claps a hand to her mouth, and laughs. "I belched!" she proclaims delightedly. "I always wondered what it would feel like." She frowns. "Ugh. Like a wee gaheena was trying to crawl up my throat. Not a pleasant sensation at all. But once it started coming out, it felt wonderful." She's

feet ahead, driving thousands of tiny, needlelike grains into our unprotected face, our eyes.

When one feels threatened, one clears the house before going to bed, but when one feels safe—a foolish thing to ever believe—one doesn't compulsively check all windows and doors, or is perhaps busy celebrating what one perceives as a victory over one's enemy. And that's precisely when the enemy strikes.

He had the wild, true heart of a child, in the body of a jaded man. Intensely guarded, unless he chose to give it, yet once given, it was given completely. Without thought to his own survival.

When a heart realized it loved was also, paradoxically, when a heart learned to fear most deeply.

Yes, I have loved, Ms. Lane, and although it's none of your business, I have lost. Many things. And no, I am not like any other player in this game and I will never be like V'lane, and I get a hard-on a great deal more often than occasionally.

I had a sudden, unwanted appreciation of men. I had a problem I couldn't fix. But if I could create a manageable problem, like a fistfight, and kick the shit out of it, it sure would make me feel better for a while.

Why have you chosen to spare me?" "I want us to be Ã¢â'¬Â¦ what is your word? Friends." "Psychotic rapists don't have friends." "I was unaware you were a psychotic rapist or I would not have offered." "Ha.

Fact: you can never know another person completely. Fact: you are born alone and die alone. Fact: there is no such thing as safety. Only vigilance, determination to survive, and a willingness to be ruthless about it. Fact: love is not perfect. Fact:

Some people bring out the worst in you, others bring out the best, and then there are those remarkably rare, addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive that you'd follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.

Grey had seen every ugly, petty, disgusting part of her and that's why he was her best friend.

have access to all our dirty linen.

She bit her lips, concentrating, wishing he'd go and sit on one of the chairs before the fireplace. Or stand at the window and watch the full moon. Anything but sit there so close she could smell the sandalwood soap he used. Night had brought a shadow of a beard to his face. He no longer looked every inch the earl, but more a coach robber, someone who would march her out to the glen and kiss her until she fell to her knees. He would show no mercy to her. Instead, he would make her beg.

There's no shame in crying, you know. You've been so strong, my brave girl, but you don't have to be strong now. There's nobody here but you and me, and you've had a hell of a night. Actually, a hell of a few years. Cry all you want.

There's something I gotta tell you," he said in a confidential tone as he leaned toward her. His face was close to hers, too close. He was making her uncomfortable again, as he no doubt intended. That notion stiffened her spine. "What?" she all but snapped. "I had a major case of the hots for you when I was in high school. I still do.

Madness, as I understood it from books, meant a person who was open to the high white whine of everything.

She doesn't know how to answer the man's question about why she snuck into the conch. She just feels like there's something she needs to protect. Some larval understanding, something cocooned inside her, that seems to get unspun and exploded with each passing year. Big Red curls up in a cold recess of the conch. That's the way to do it, the grown-up voices whisper. Wear your skeleton on the inside out, and keep your insect heart secret.

Wear your skeleton on the inside out, and keep your insect heart secret.

Hundreds of our old neighbors, friends, coworkers, and teachers are new insomniacs. They file for dream bankruptcy, appeal for Slumber Corps aid, wait to be approved for a sleep donor. It is a special kind of homelessness, says our mayor, to be evicted from your dreams. I believe our mayor is both genuinely concerned for his insomniac constituency, and also pandering to a powerfully desperate new voting block.