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I’d rather be shot dead screaming for justice than die alone in a prison of my own making.”
And we are quotation marks, inverted and upside down, clinging to one another at the end of this life sentence. Trapped by lives we did not choose. It’s time, I think, to break free.
I’m only just conscious enough to whisper his name. “Yes, love?” I try to say more but my mouth won’t listen. “Are you asleep now?” he asks. Yes, I think. I don’t know. Yes. I nod. “That’s good,” he says quietly. He lifts my head, pulls my hair away from my neck so my face falls more easily onto the pillow. He shifts so he’s beside me on the bed. “You need to sleep more,” he says. I nod again, curling onto my side. He pulls the blankets up around my arms. He kisses the curve of my shoulder. My shoulder blade. Five kisses down my spine, one softer than the next. “I will be here every night,” he
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h e l l i s e m p t y a n d a l l t h e d e v i l s a r e h e r e
Words are like seeds, I think, planted into our hearts at a tender age. They take root in us as we grow, settling deep into our souls. The good words plant well. They flourish and find homes in our hearts. They build trunks around our spines, steadying us when we’re feeling most flimsy; planting our feet firmly when we’re feeling most unsure. But the bad words grow poorly. Our trunks infest and spoil until we are hollow and housing the interests of others and not our own. We are forced to eat the fruit those words have borne, held hostage by the branches growing arms around our necks,
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