Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

How do you keep safe when your whole day is as wide and empty as the sky?

They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

It’s impossible to compete with the dead. I wished I could stop trying.

When you die, you become perfect. I’d be like Princess Diana. Everyone loves her now.”

A town so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. It’s the kind of place that leaves a mark.

Crisp clean clothes to make us forget all the drips and dank smells that come from our bodies.

He tilted my head up to him and kissed me, first slowly and then, when I didn’t pull away, he folded me into his arms,

Not in the adolescent trap house

“Where would you take a little girl to strangle her?” Richard asked.

Romance <3

“You’re so hateful.” “I learned at your feet.”

Would I ever have the discipline to let the water cover my face, drown with my eyes open? Just refuse to lift yourself two inches, and it will be done.

This place is miserable and I want to die, but I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,”

he sulked off, like all men do when they don’t get their way with women they’ve fooled around with.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions.

Women get consumed. Not surprising, considering the sheer amount of traffic a woman’s body experiences. Tampons and speculums. Cocks, fingers, vibrators and more, between the legs, from behind, in the mouth. Men love to put things inside women, don’t they? Cucumbers and bananas and bottles, a string of pearls, a Magic Marker, a fist. Once a guy wanted to wedge a Walkie-Talkie inside of me. I declined.

“This is the unforgiving light of morning,” I whispered back. “Time to drop the illusion.”