Findings:

Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "In that she looked like she was about to messily tear up something much smaller than she was. Don't ask me why you people find it attractive."

I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
She was like a candle in the wind: unreliable
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
I was once smaller than a jellybean, but now look at me - I am macroscopic!
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
I don't like her because she won't like me
She didn't write like Emily Dickinson, but she did live in a house overlooking a cemetery, and I guess he thought that was important.
Outside the train station she was the only person wearing an Orange raincoat and a look of surprise
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
She may be pretty and have more money than me but she doesn't write songs about you.
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
She told me I looked like a Henry, and this is how she would know me
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
She wore a bit more makeup than he generally liked
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
She was free
She asked me to stop dreaming of death
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
She's smarter than me but she's also more quiet, therefore she has no personality which makes me feel better
She wakes me up by tickling my feet
She was locked in time
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
What the hell was she thinking?
She was never mine. I always shared her.
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
She is lobbing rainbows at me from across the room and I am swallowing them like fear.
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
I don't know why but I always love episodes without words. like just something about them makes me feel calm or something..
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She told me she remembers three things about me
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
She was feminine in the most displaced sense I had ever seen, a known quality refracted through stained glass windows.
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
When she was bad
she was just the dry smell of gasoline
She was so tall, and I was so in love
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
She was coming out as he was going in.
The one thing I wanted more than anything was for someone, just once, to tell me they don't know what they'd do without me
She Looked Slutty. I Don't Mean That in a Bad Way.
She was cilantro, jalepeno, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
To a girl who thought she was moving away
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
Dust mop so magic she can not believe how fun it is to clean up after people
She was steady
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
She always was devious in her beauty
She had become a mutton for punishment and he was a wolf
She hit me like thunder, and I had to lie down until I could breathe again
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
she looked at me then whispered, we are all made of stardust
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
She just looks at me
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
The girl didn't know if she was loved until he said yes.
She looks at me and she laughs
She asked me to read her a poem
Because, perhaps she was cold
She was the cutest necromancer I ever did see
She is and was
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
He was an ant on an ill-defined mission. She was the trapdoor spider of love.
She knew what she was doing
she was once a stealthy ghostship in the fog, now she shines wherever she walks
She didn't know what outside was anymore.
She cleaned up for me at least.
She Was 18, It Was Summer
And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
She was too beautiful to be human
she was waylaid by an octopus
Besides the part where she was the only one
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
She doesn't look like Mother anymore
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She had fingernails that shined like justice
She loved me for my maths
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
I don't think the sun was up
She is like a kaleidoscope, a strange attractor, a superstition
She had eyes like the Blue Screen of Death
She tasted like whiskey and blood and cemetery dirt.
She said she loved me. The knife came down.
She only wants me for tech support
Somebody told me a story. It was pretty but boring. It was Saturday night, my stories usually end up that way.
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
she, he, and me
She stopped me in the city. A lost soul gambling on random encounters.
She found me on public transportation
she made them, like fire, expansible over all space
she does not know how much I need this (idea) mp3 (recording)
She Gave Sweet Love To Me
she can't remember what it's like to be found
She tastes like gingerbread, too.
She might not need me. But then again she might.
She is like an onion
She said I dreamed like dead men
She left me on the boardwalk with my head held in my hands.
She is still undoing me.
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
She handed me my first sharpened pencil.
she seems bored with me after all this time
It wasn't so much a trip down memory lane as it was me carjacking someone's memorymobile and speeding off down the freeway, but I digress.
She Blinded Me With Science
The stars were bright that night she left me forever
she does not know how much I need this
texting, she tells me anarchy will remain an important ideology
she gave herself that holocaust haircut. cinnamon colored clippings cover the motel bedspread like sprinkles.
She must be what cocaine is like
She Speaks to Me
Looks like 1984 was only n years off
My mother loves me. She uses the good sandwich bags.
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
I felt I was part of something, like a voice in a crowd or an island in a sea
My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me
I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now
God was creepier than I expected so I took it out on the little people
I was raised on red pepper and blood. I am so hot if you strike me I will light like a match.
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
She Came and Went Like Wind (A Selkie Story)
If she really wanted to fit in, she'd get a smaller dog.
She couldn't imagine that he liked dancing
She taught me some moves, including stealthy exits.
She felt like the word 'shatter'
I put my head down and hoped to God she wasn't looking at me
The portion of her face she allows me to see
I really miss the woman who told me that people don't like me
She loves me, she loves me not
I was wrong as a child, to think old people were stupid for asking me where the day had gone. Now I understand... we older people do not live.
There is nothing growing here, in the space between she and me
she spent the night gingerly peeling me off the moon.
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
She doesn't need me anymore
Is it fair for him to love me when she craves his touch?
Tell him, she told me
Don't kill your invisible husband to see what he looks like or you'll sob your heart out. But don't worry about the millions of invisible men coming to attack your village because they won't kill you if you don't know how to fight them.
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
She loved me for my brains not my body. It's what zombies do.
She tells me she drives a truck.
that's where she lost me as I began imagining my family amongst blood-dripped hedges
Spinning shapes like a song out of order. In the dark she can see fireflies.
Tell me what you don't like about yourself.
I would have liked thunder when she left
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
This is the first time she's texted me since the morning she left.
She told me she wouldn't

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