Where Sleeping Girls Lie

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

I write to young girls who feel so much anger, and need desperately for someone or something to tell them their rage is important, and that the capacity to heal from deep wounds is not at all impossible.

It was like constantly being haunted by herself, with no reprieve from the ghosts inside her.

Maybe it was simply the fact that she was new. A blank slate. Much easier to paint her in anyone’s image. To write an elaborate history for her. To give her a motive.

The best liars, Sade had found, were the ones who were also lying to themselves in some way. They’d lied so much to others, it was too easy to also eventually convince their own minds of the lie.

Death was at first an unwelcome guest and slowly transformed into a bitter companion.

Animosity wasn’t always a negative thing; it was sometimes just a symptom of caring for someone deeply.

Sometimes to look forward, you have to look back.

It was something people didn’t like girls to admit to knowing, but she had always been aware that she was beautiful.

That was the problem with love. It created blind spots in your mind. Bloodred flags were blocked out by high levels of dopamine and the trick of a gentlemanly smile.

We are more powerful than they want us to think. I say we use that.”