You are an idealist, which means that you are destined to be disappointed, and perhaps even wounded. You seek a gospel of benevolence and miracle, which leaves no room for the sorrows of existence.
It is still news to her that passion
could steer her wrong
though she went down, a thousand times
across railroad tracks, off bridges
under cars, or stiff
glass bottle still in hand, hair soft
on greasy pillows, still it is
news she cannot follow love (his
burning footsteps in blue crystal
snow) & still
come out all right.
I never yet heard of a useless thing that was not ground out of
existence by evolution sooner or later. Did you? And pain gets needless.
There is no grief like heartbreak.
Some friends don’t understand this. They don’t understand how desperate I am to have someone say, I love you and I support you just the way you are because you’re wonderful just the way you are. They don’t understand that I can’t remember anyone ever saying that to me. I am so demanding and difficult for my friends because I want to crumble and fall apart before them so that they will love me even though I am no fun, lying in bed, crying all the time, not moving. Depression is all about If you loved me you would.
If you looked round the rooms, you wouldn’t think there was anything missing. But it’s like one of those Spot the difference cartoons in a puzzle book. The changes are so subtle, yet glaringly obvious once you’ve seen them. A photo missing here, a cup there. A heart a bit more broken than it was before.
I believe in kindness and karma-which could make me a Buddhist. I believe in mystic healing and crystals’ powers-which could make me a witch. I believe in truth, honor, and forgiveness-which could make me a Christian. I even believe in the existence of past lives and that each and every one of us is watched over by guides from the other side-which, to some, would make me totally woo-woo squared.
It was the least she could do. For Nehemia-for. . . a lot of other people. There was nothing left in her, not really. Only ash and an abyss and the unbreakable vow she’d carved into her flesh, to the friend who had seen her for what she truly was.
But I really thought that me and her had something. Then I thought about how a lot of people, black and white don’t like the idea of a white geezer and a black bird getting it on. One day it won’t matter a fuck, we’ll all be coffee-coloured with a tint of yellow. Till then we got a load of grief tae get through.
One in four girls will experience sexual abuse by the time she is sixteen, and 48 percent of all rapes involve a young woman under the age of eighteen. It’s not surprising then, that in a society where sexual abuse of young women is rampant, many women never share their stories. They remain hidden and invisible.