Quotes About Pain

The box opens and the razors slide out, whisper sweet. Used to be that my whole body was my canvas-hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms, thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.

Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all a disappointment. 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 a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop.

Laurie Halse Anderson

I am trapped with Andy Evans.

Mr. Freeman taps his chin. He looks way too serious to be an art teacher. He's making me nervous. Mr. Freeman: This has meaning. Pain. The bell rings. I leave before he can say more.

I sniff again and wipe my eyes on my arm. The bruises are vivid, but they will fade.

When Heather sees what I have done, she bursts into tears again, sobbing that it isn't my fault. My stomach is killing me. Her room isn't big enough for this much emotion. I leave without saying goodbye.

I'd love to stay and chat, but my feet won't let me. I walk home instead of taking the bus. I unlock the front door and walk straight up to my room, across the rug, and into my closet without even taking off my backpack. When I close the closet door behind me, I bury my face into the clothes on the left side of the rack, clothes that haven't fit for years. I stuff my mouth with old fabric and scream until there are no sounds left under my skin.

I avoid the drama of the girls still neck-deep in the snow, running away from the pain as fast as they can. I hope they figure it out.

The doctors tied me back together with twine... They tied me back together, but they didn't use double knots

Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere, always breeding over your wanderings long and hard, your hearts never lifting with any joy - you've suffered far too much.

scars may look stronger than unwounded skin, but they're not once broken, we're hurt again, or worse

It had become easier to lie about most things because it didn't hurt as much when he ignored me.

What are these scars from? she asked. They're battle wounds, I replied. She looked at me for a long time. Who were you battling? Myself.

Mom, picking out bits of grain from roll: You're alive because of Dr. Parker. Lia, bleeding where they can't see: Stop exaggerating.

Madam, there is no treachery in the truth. There may be pain, but to face honestly all possible conclusions formed by a set of facts is the noblest route possible for a human being." Holmes could be surprisingly empathetic at times, and his words now had a gentling effect on the lady.

The response to a festering sore was not to extol its virtues, but to lance the thing and let the poison bleed out.

No, liebchen, not if it's too painful for you to talk about it." "Devious sheenie bastard." "Devious, yes. Sheenie, yes. Bastard, no. What did you used to do in bed?

He went on, hurting her, torturing her. And then a very strange thing happened. Very strange. So strange she didn't understand it at first. So strange she couldn't think about it, couldn't even realize what it was. All she could do was react. The fire in her breasts and loins turned from pain to pleasure. The ache that dominated her entire being became an ache that craved immediate satisfaction. She didn't want to escape, not any more.

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!

El dolor mismo es el único elemento de la memoria; porque el placer termina en sí mismo

Bir kad?nla üç ÅŸey yapabilirsin; ya onu seversin ya onun için ac? çekersin ya da onu yazars?n.

A poem with its throat cut from ear to ear. The Daily Mirror