Quotes About Pain

the cross-shaped burn scar

I slowed, just a little, one to save energy, and one to let Russell catch up sooner. I took a big breath and prepared. I knew what I wanted to do. But my body had to do it. I couldn't hesitate because my back or my arm or anything else hurt. I risked a glance back, and Russell was almost there, almost on me. I kicked him, full out, straight in the balls.

There are pains too deep for words, but there's touch to say what words can't. 'Can

A long time ago it used to bother me that I could be in such confusion, such pain, and the world just didn't give a shit. The world, the creation as a whole, is designed to move forward, to keep on without any one individual person. It feels damned impersonal, and it is. But, then, if the world stopped rotating just because one of us was having a bad day, we'd all be floating out in space.

The law says innocent until proven guilty, but the truth is, if you see enough pain and death, it's guilty until proven innocent.

sometimes things need to hurt some now, so they don't hurt a lot more later.

Some truths don't make you feel better. Some truths just hurt more." No one argued with him; we'd all been around violence and death too long to argue with something that true.

Years later, admiring his dark-haired daughter, the light of his life, in the city he wouldn't have been able to find on a map back when he lived in Germany, he understood that even pain could bring joy. It wasn't a trade-off, and it didn't give him comfort; it was just something true.

Some sort of weird, shared inexplicable draw to fall in love with people who hurt and betray us.

It hurt to kill a dream, like tearing petals off a rose in full bloom.

Loss. A strange word. It seemed to mean an absence, something missing; but loss was also a presence all its own, a fanged and snarling monster ready at any moment to break its chain and snatch someone away.

I won't go about to argue the point with you,—'tis so,—and I am persuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, That both man and woman bear pain or sorrow, (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a horizontal position.

So that whether the pain of a wound in the groin (cæteris paribus) is greater than the pain of a wound in the knee—or Whether the pain of a wound in the knee is not greater than the pain of a wound in the groin—are points which to this day remain unsettled.

I am pursuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, That both man and woman bear pain or sorrow, (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a horizontal position.

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black. She has a knife, knife, knife, stuck in her back, back, back. She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe. She cannot cry, cry, cry. Thats why she begs, begs, begs. She begs to die, die ,die..

My world is falling apart.

I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don't want to die. I want to eat like a normal person eats, but I need to see my bones or I will hate myself even more and I might cut my heart out or take every pill that was ever made.

The stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking didn't make her skinny, it made her cry.

You hurt her by starving yourself, you hurt her with your lies, and by fighting everybody who tries to help you. Emma can only sleep a couple of hours a night now. She's haunted by nightmares of monsters that eat our whole family. They eat us slowly, she says, so we can feel their sharp teeth.

It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.

Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt. It made it easier not to think about having my body and my family and my life stolen, made it easier not to care... -Wintergirls

Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don't want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and cut and drink because you need an anesthetic and it works. For awhile. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's to late because you are maintaining it now,straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop.

If I run or breathe too deep, the cheap stitches holding me together will snap, and all the stickiness inside will pour out and burn through the concrete.

My head is killing me, my throat is killing me, my stomach bubbles with toxic waste. I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid if this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.