Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

Bury my bones in the midnight soil, plant them shallow and water them deep, and in my place will grow a feral rose, soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.

“Careful. In nature, beauty is a warning. The pretty ones are often poisonous.”

“You will learn, it is better to bend than to break.” María stared into the hearth. “Why should I be the one who bends?”

“One can be alone without feeling lonely,” she muses. “One can feel lonely without being alone.”

one of those grim reminders that your life is small and the world is big, and even when it feels like it’s falling down, it’s only falling down on you. To everyone else, it’s just going on as usual.

What is the point, she thinks, of loving something you are doomed to lose? Of holding on to someone who cannot hold on to you?

“The world will try to make you small. It will tell you to be modest, and meek. But the world is wrong. You should get to feel and love and live as boldly as you want.”

“Great,” mutters Alice. “You guys get pipe smoke and fresh bread, and I get anxiety. Doesn’t seem fair.”