I’m going to explain this quickly, and once. She’s standing there, all poetic in a field of tulips or whatever makes you feel all fluffy inside, and she’s standing there, with her hands bloody, and she’s got this hole in her chest where she’s been trying to rip her heart out. I mean literally, she’s had her fingers five inches deep in flesh and sinew and she’s digging around trying to get in between ribs so she can hold her beating heart; she wants to pull it out with her bare hand. I mean her eyesight is literally giving out from the pain. That’s what she’s like, you know? She did it for the story. She’s got the scar and I’ve seen it, all matted and purple and six inches wide where she sometimes wakes up still trying to reach inside herself for some fucking proof of her humanity. So don’t talk to her that way, alright? She’s got baggage she carries around daily twice the size of your body, and she won’t hesitate to add your mass to the load. Just don’t fuck with her. She’s finally learning how to sit still in quiet places without holding her breath, and how to pretend her nightmare is just a dream.
November 24th, 2014