Nearly all the queers Michelle knew were fuckups in one way or another.
I wanted her so badly, my heart hung out of my chest like some hound-dog’s tongue, pant, pant.
Melancholy was a fleshy wave permanently cresting on her face, she had to speak through it when she talked.
One would think that having grown up broke would make one desperate for financial stability, eager to rest in the economic security of a good job. Rather, it gave me the freedom to take chances. I knew how to get by on next to nothing.
This mouth had kissed me so much it had worn its own grooves into my teeth. It was like settling into the armchair that fit exactly the round of your body, only it was incredibly exciting because everything was different now, and it was horribly wrong to be kissing. It would only prolong everything. I sat there in the bus shelter, back up against the glass, hoping the bug would never come. Desperation is the sexiest emotion.
To have someone know you so thoroughly and not want you. Is there anything more painful?
She kissed her like she’d been stranded on an island, notching each stranded day onto a fallen coconut, slowly losing her mind. She filled Michelle like weather, worked her mouth like a cherry stem being tongued into a knot.
The messed-up queers Michelle ran with tempted fate daily, were creating a new way to live, new templates for everything – life, death, beauty, aging, art.
She was magnificent. She wasn’t so much a person as an event, a gigantic presence.
She was just so sad. Her whole face hung with it, like sadness was her personal gravity.
Am I in an abusive relationship? Because even though Fake Johnny Depp’s torments were never physical, they made me feel so completely unhinged that I actually hit myself. Nothing slams the self-esteem like hitting your own freaking self. This was the cycle of violence I found myself in, due in no small part to the heady effects of.
I don’t mind doing awful things as long as somebody else does. I would totally jump off the bridge, thanks for asking.
On the first day of the end of the world, Michelle got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, and smacked some roaches.
You can’t get lost if you have nowhere to be.
Did anyone think this canon of druggie men were out of control? Only in the most admirable of ways! Out of control like a shaman or a space explorer, like a magician sawing himself in half. Out of control like a poet.
To be a butch girl in high school, to be better at masculinity than all the men around you, and then to be punished for it!
No, I was not going to work. I was an artist, a lover, a lover of women, of the oppressed and downtrodden, a warrior really. I should have been somewhere leading an armed revolution in the name of love and no, I was not going to work.
I kissed her hand. My seduction technique is best filed under Obvious.
Michelle had great admiration for criminals and crime, though only from a distance.
The heartbreak of having written and published a first book is that the world then expected you to write a second.