Quotes About Desire

You play along, because you want to die for love, you always have.

You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things. You wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way.

He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over.

You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.

I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it's summer, so it's suicide, so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

And no one can ever figure out what you want, and you won't tell them, and you realize the person who loves you isn't the one you thought it would be, and you don't trust him to love you in a way you would enjoy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy. And the boy who loves you in the wrong way keeps weakening. You thought if you handed over your body he'd do something interesting.

We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth. You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.

I hope it's love. I'm trying really hard to make it love.

I'm saying your name in the grocery store, I'm saying your name on the bridge at dawn. Your name like an animal covered with frost, your name like a music that's been transposed, a suit of fur, a coat of mud, a kick in the pants, a lungful of glass, the sails in wind and the slap of waves on the hull...

The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn't. It should be.

God says, Which one of you fuckers can get to me first?

Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next?

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.

Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?

You just wanted to prove that there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.

You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn't say it out loud.

I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise. I've been in your body and it was a carnival ride.

I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn't have to clean them up like this.

Here we are, at the place where I get to beg for it. Where I get to say 'Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me? We can leave our clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?' But we both know how it goes – I say I want you inside me and you hold my head underwater. I say I want you inside me and you split me open with a knife.

He was not dead yet, not exactly— parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting for something to happen, something grand, but it isn't always about me, he keeps saying, though he's talking about the only heart he knows— He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place— well then, game over.

Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.