Shortcake

by Lucy Watson

death has a way of breathing new life into old wounds.

I guess if you go back far enough in any dysfunctional family, you’ll find the before.

There are just so many emotions your body can handle,

I’m not a super clean person (obviously), but once I start, I won’t stop until it’s perfect.

It’s funny how some memories fade over time and others, that you wish would, don’t.

I’ve spent most of my adult life searching for purpose in hopeless situations. Using these hands to make people feel better. Or at least, I try to.

“Not everyone’s gonna like you, Em, but not everyone matters.”

They knew torture isn’t the cold heat of the blade as it slices through skin, but the slow death of hope that follows each drop of blood.

The soul can’t breathe without hope. Torture is to keep living after your soul has died.

“Nothing good ever came from rushing.”

You can’t grow up with someone and not get into fights, or go short periods without talking.

“We’re all dealing with shit, some more, some less, but we all got something.”

We never really know how the rushing water of life will shape us, or what landscape it will leave behind.

The thing about anxiety is it doesn’t care that you haven’t had a night out in forever. It doesn’t care that you need to dance away all the bullshit weighing you down. It doesn’t care that you finally feel like you have it. Anxiety is a sneaky son of a bitch.

Only one is a wanderer. Two together are always going somewhere. Travel well, Sweet Benny. Take good care of each other. Love always, Grammy Rose