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How frequently and how tragically does the wounded feminine whore herself for the wounded masculine, giving over entirely to the illusion of acceptance, comfort, and consistency from the patriarchy.
Still, several of those incidents have remained in my memory -- the time a trusted friend told me in all seriousness to “lay off the groceries,” or the time a man I was intimate with suggested I go to the gym, or when my mother told me that when I sat down on the edge of the bed, I created more ...
The truth is that grief -- like any other hardship -- is a seed full of immeasurable potential for growth and development. It is both an honor and a miracle to bear witness to the transformation and enrichment a person can undergo after a trauma.
I could kiss the space between your eyebrows until the world turns to ashes around us, I could wrap my legs around you and touch your lips and stroke your hair until the sky turns purple and the sea overtakes the land and we are the only things left on the Earth.
You’ll do it even though it’s hard, because you are brave and you want to be loved.
There’s a crack in that you, and -- can you feel it? -- the fingers of your soul are grasping its edges and prying it open. Because that you wants nothing more than to crash at your feet in a crumble of dust and silence. Facades aren’t meant to last a lifetime.
These are the ones whose ribcage is a tangle of blackberry vines and whose spine is a bottomless mountain ravine, rushing clear water, icy as snowmelt. The ones with rubies in their teeth and turquoise in their chests, with fingertips that grow into dandelions, and eyelashes into blue jay wings.
So here we are, in the dark of the night, swimming in the moon rays. Here we all are -- you, me, the Boys and Girls Who Lived, carrying, always, the last living fragments of our own attempted murderers, and remembering, if we can, that it is not our abilities that make us who we are, but our choices.