love, enormous

I resent being called a "cradle-robber." My boyfriend is a year and a half younger than I. Gender reversed this would hardly be an exorbitant age difference.

Why isn't it people say what they mean "you are old, dried up soon unable to bear children and therefore worthless, he is too good for you, you are breaking the rules and we don't like it."

Honesty is simple and simplicity breaks the spell that cities and calculations and illness have over me. I am twenty two years old and when I am dead I want to be rolled beneath a tree and swallowed up by the earth while I am far away, laughing and dancing and being incredibly stupid in the place the Lord has saved for me.

Wicked Opiate and the True Femmes

Being living is OKAY. Day-to-day breaths are measured in small towns, in big cities, in extraordinary deserts, in clusters of the near-dead and dying. So she (Natalia I think I mean) will go off, shoulders stooped, carrying on bag for the things she owns and one bag for the things she's bought, looking down the tunnel of the street, the buildings blending together and the snow in the roads, the thick ice in shattered pieces on the sidewalk.

Come on, Dear Lord, please help me get by. I can either chose to face the hate, and overcome it and gloriously victoriously come out much stronger or I can wipe my brain, and I can hold apathy like a bitter cyanide capsule under my tongue (harmless now though; bitter but harmless - for now - ) and be maybe a little okay. Being living little is all OKAY.

Like Mr. Sufjan Stevens, I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND. I really do want to be well.

Characters come and characters do not go so please live on, little phosphorescence; I need you very much.

live on, live on

so in the worst of weather, do I dare to believe God steered me with great assurance to safety? Am I to believe that I've not died for a very particular reason? so what is folly, after all? I owe my Creator great thanks.

her story is finally coming along; struggling and screaming from the birth canal, swallowing air and bloating her stomach, turning blue, freezing softly, dead in the forest. there are worse fates: her's was an ugly one but there are always worse fates.