…people who don’t live at least a little bit in fear, have nothing left to live for.
I’m not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I’m old, perhaps.
She leans over the desk to write and even though I feel bad for doing it, I watch her body as she does. Her shirt lifts just a little as she’s bending over and whether she’s aware of it or not, her lower back is exposed. I’ve spent the last eight years ignoring this girl, but one small view of her back and it’s putting my body into overdrive.
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone there so much in my life.
…girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and boring, but those “in the know
The second hardest part about growing up is trying to figure out who you are. The hardest part comes after you’ve figured it out and the rest of the world wants to pull you in a different direction.
I guess this means we’re uck-fayed, don’t it Mikee?
Why is it so hard? It’s hard because it matters, I think.
I fall in love with Paraíso. It’s like a giant playground where I’m never scolded for running around recklessly, where I’m almost overwhelmed with the amount of attention and love I receive from Mami’s family. In New York, I’m invisible.
I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself – my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.
He would say things like, “But you are my wife!