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I was also pissed that for the first time in my life it seemed like something was going to work out.
Kidnapping abusive husbands and boyfriends is like a hobby of hers, she works them over real nice.
NEED to get into this
Women always speak, think, and act from the memory of our pain.
I put my life in the devil’s hands cause God doesn’t come through on this kinda thing.
I’d rather die in battle than live with my bare feet on the ground. I’d rather take up my AK than go back to thrifting clothes.
What good will it do you to be driven to the cemetery in a luxury hearse?”
I came looking for live music to dance to but, just my luck, what I found instead was this brutal desert that devours women, carves them up, disappears them, swallows them whole. See nothing, say nothing. But you can’t pull the wool over my eyes.
I was scared, because our bodies remember. But I swallowed my fear and smiled, baring my fangs.
It’s never okay to be the understudy, ever.
That’s why I left home. So I wouldn’t get beaten for wearing padded bras and red lipstick, or letting my hair grow down to my waist. So no one would call me a bastard when I was being a bitch.
When they found my body, no one called me Julia. As if a little plastic card with a photo on it meant more than a whole lifetime of transformations.
We walked together through the dark November sky, and suddenly the night was made of sequins.
I don’t know why I thought of this just now. Memories pop up when you’re not looking for them, I guess.
What I didn’t do was keep the promise I made you: that I wouldn’t let myself drown in my sadness if something happened to you. But too late, I already did. I’m in it so deep that sometimes I even think I am sadness.
In your own home. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere. Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
Every two hours and twenty-five minutes, a woman in Mexico is strangled, raped, dismembered, burned alive, mutilated, beaten to a pulp, and left with bruises and broken bones. A woman’s body, another woman. Some woman, a nameless woman. A lifeless body was found. But none of them was yours.
No one is ever ready for the death of someone they love. But this wasn’t death. It was theft. You were stolen, violently ripped from my side.
An unidentified woman. You were one more body in this genocide. Another nameless woman adding to the death count. Another pink cross.
Mexico is a monster that devours women. Mexico is a desert of pulverized bone. Mexico is a graveyard full of pink crosses. Mexico is a country that hates women.
“Maybe that’s your mission. To gather the bones of dead women, to piece them together and tell their stories, and then to let them run free.”
