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“Pride, she thought drearily, was a cold bedfellow.”
― Marion Zimmer Bradley, The King Stag

“I want out of this place.
With no reminders."
It stings -
sulphur tears
in cinnamon rain.”
― Emma Cameron, Cinnamon Rain

“Snow is seldom still. It swirls and blinds. It clings to everything, glimmering and glittering, and when a gust comes, it turns into white fog.

And it stings. First like needles, then like razors. Tiny particles of ice chafe the cheeks, and even when they settle, they hide pitfalls.”
― Holly Black, The Stolen Heir

“Back at the cottage we explored the topography of my body; twigs in my hair, calves striped red and my skirt smudged in meadowtones. The forest underlined me, accentuated me, illustrated me. I felt alive in that midnight village whose dark places left their signatures on my skin, whose bites still hummed around my wrists. I didn’t notice till then the thousand nettle stings rising like pearls; burning bracelets that my love kissed and rubbed with dock leaves; a folk remedy painting my pulse points green; honorary stalks.”
― Jalina Mhyana, Dreaming in Night Vision: A Story in Vignettes