More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I’m trapped in an infinite loop of bad decisions with consequences that are never not dramatic. I take the same road over and over, always forgetting it’s the wrong one, and even when it looks like I have things under control, something tells me maybe I don’t.
Because masculinity is like marzipan: fragile as hell, queen.
How can you prove misogyny in court if the murderer says he loved her? Love is misogynist.
In your own home. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere. Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
There is no room of one’s own when men think our bodies belong to them.
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.
“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.”
my rebellion is that I want to live, and if I don’t let you go, if I don’t let you run free, this sadness will kill me.
