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Pity is destruction wearing a mask of sympathy. Pity strips you bare. Pity shrinks.
Just you wait, honey. Men are wolves, and some wolves are patient.
No one is all bad. No one is all good. We live as equals in the murky gray between.
Have you ever hurt so badly you lose every last trace of yourself?
Tragedy had a texture. A knot, begging to be unraveled.
Sister love was like food, or air, or memory itself. It was molecular. The very stuff of her.
She was no longer the closest thing to her sister. They were no longer an us, but rather two separate people, growing at two separate paces, one awake and blazing, the other formless and grasping.
It was an ambitious concept, justice. The idea that your lot in life could be based on your own choices. That you could work for things or ruin them for yourself.
We cannot be whole until we face what has broken us.
Sometimes life has a way of telling you where you belong, don’t you think?
He’s trying to figure out who he is and how to exist. He’s trying to justify himself. Aren’t we all doing some version of that?”
It seems impossible that such a basic thing—potential—can be taken away.
Violence always left a fingerprint.
Mothering could be as simple as this: a woman and her very own blood, breathing in tandem through the darkest heart of night.
It would be a tragedy, she thought—inhumane—if we were defined only by the things we left behind.
You don’t need to have it all. You only need to figure out how much is enough.
