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… but It Cannot Be A Mistake to have cared … It Cannot Be An Error to have tried … It Cannot Be Incorrect to have loved
YOU, WHO IS STANDING BY MY GRAVE; DON'T LOOK SO SHOCKED BY THIS SIGHT. YESTERDAY I WAS JUST LIKE YOU, AND TOMORROW YOU WILL BE JUST LIKE ME.
Let me say it plain: I loved someone and I failed at it. Let me say it another way: I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife. Sometimes I think we have the same name, Notquitelove.
I love you. You're my best friend. Come and we'll get married, and we'll live in a house together
Memory blurs, that’s the point. If memory didn’t blur you wouldn’t have the fool’s courage to do things again, again, again, that tear you apart.
This haunting was a gift. You did not ask for it, but here it is, and wrapped so nicely. It would be rude to take it back. Maybe you can find a use for it.
Jessica has a forehead scar from the deep end of a pool. I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else.
I carried my fear of the world the way an animal carries a kill in its jaws but in reverse: I was the kill, the gift. Whose feet would I be left at?
This isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.
I told him that I'd turned into a ghost; or maybe that I was the only living girl in a city of ghosts; that, in any case, I didn't feel like dying all the time.
I'm coming out as someone who loves things unevenly, my theologies strewn out in the dark, this iPhone an almost oracle.
Today, I forgot what it was I went looking for, my own face, or the shape of something I should love.
> I need you to know that I am getting good at being patient but I also need you to know that this is really hard. > If it's possible to get back to me any sooner, I need you to do that.
Always falling into a hole, then saying "ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole," getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying "ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,"
I love you like my calloused hands from years of work, I love you like my clay caked nails and paint stained jeans.
Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairs and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.
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