Quotes About Pain

Yet I liked him too much… way too much, and I ripped him out of my heart so it wouldn't get to hurt me more than it did.

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes.

daddy daddy you bastard, i'm through

brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

I thought it would be easy, lying in the tub and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank to sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

It won't happen yet, Ellen mused, mashing cooked carrots for Jill's lunch. Breakups seldom do. It will unfold slowly, one little tell- tale symptom after another like some awful, hellish flower.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.   I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.

I borrow the stilts of an old tragedy.

I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.

I am too pure for you or anyone. Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God.

Dziewicza strona, bia?a. Pierwsza skalana i odrzucona. Wszystkie te marzenia, obietnice: czekanie, a? b?d? mog?a znowu pisa?, a potem bolesny, sfuszerowany gwa?t na pierwszej kartce.

What holes this papery day is already full of! He has been burning me with cigarettes

His face, with its exaggerated shadows and planes of light, looked alien and pained, like a refugee's.

The tongues of hell are dull.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me With its yellow purses, its spiky armoury. I could not run without having to run forever.

Worse Even than your maddening Song, your silence.

If I could bleed, or sleep! If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Era como se o que eu quisesse matar não estivesse naquela pele ou no leve pulsar azul sob o meu dedão, mas em outro lugar mais profundo e secreto, bem mais difícil de alcançar.

ÎÈ™i închipuiau c? eram aÈ™a de viteaz?, lucrând atât doar ca s? ascund o inim? frânt?.