I don’t know how I know that, but I do. I can feel the beat of that truth inside me. Taste it bitter on my tongue. Sometimes, like now, I didn’t think I want to know who I really am.
But I know a lie when I hear one.
Something in me, in my bruised heart, wakes up, and even though I’m terrified, I don’t push the feeling away.
You know who you are you just have to believe it.
I want to care, but I don’t. I look at you and all I feel is tired. I walk through school and all I want to do is leave. I wake up in the morning and don’t know why I’m here. I feel like I’m not real.
I didn’t feel anything watching him go. I didn’t even wish I did.
I felt nothing all the time, and it had started to feel normal. It should have scared me, but it didn’t.
The heart is a place with worm holes made by feelings you aren’t supposed to have but do.
Darling, the world doesn’t owe you anything.
I think love is huge, overwhelming. I think it’s terrible and beautiful.
I-I don’t usually go around throwing rocks at people’s windows. Or saying that I’ve wanted to kiss you since your first day at work, when you wanted to know why we had three codes for fish sandwiches when we only sold one kind.
I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
The story of my life can be told in silver: in chocolate mills, serving spoons, and services for twelve. The story of my life has nothing to do with me. The story of my life is things. Things that aren’t mine, that won’t ever be mine. It’s all I’ve ever known. I wish it wasn’t.
My mother taught me to believe in silver, to believe in things, but I think it’s more important to believe in me.
This is what happiness is, past the rubbish of its overuse as a word, past the cracked gloss of the letters that mean nothing when strung together. They mean something now, and I know what it’s like when you and someone else are right together. How simple is is, and how amazing.
I thought living dead girls couldn’t feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I’m not, I’m not.
She became a story, one I have mostly forgotten. One I can’t end because she died a long time ago.
I never went for the talkers.
I’d forgotten how much feelings hurt.
I don’t know, shifted a little or something, smoothed down–people would think of me the way they think of Dave, and everything would always be perfect. I would be perfect.