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Preverbal, love is the smell of a known body, the touch of a recognized hand, the blurred face in a haze of light.
I look back at the loves in my life and I think I should’ve known, I should’ve seen, I should’ve listened. I didn’t.
It’s not easy for a woman to kill a man.
I suffer for my art.
It’s not that women psychopaths don’t exist; it’s that we fake it better than men.
Fucking, metaphorical or literal, is New York City’s soul. Fucking with, fucking up, fucking over, fucking around, fucking right: New York Fucking City has earned its name.
Show me a human who hasn’t silently, stealthily, lain in bed and wished for the sudden horrible death of the person lying next to them, and I’ll show you a liar.
Culture refuses to see violence in women, and the law nurtures a special loathing for violent women.
As a girl, when you grow up, you become delectable. As a woman, when you grow old, you turn immaterial—unless you bear children, unless you make art, unless you leave a legacy.
