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There is a wilderness in little girls. We could not contain it.
That was the problem with writers. They couldn’t help digging the edge of a fingernail under your scabs so they could feel the shape of your wounds.
It wasn’t Never again, but it was Not today, and we could string those days along one after another, a procession of sunrises we’d held on long enough to see.
Forget the house. Forget everything. Let bones stay buried and secrets unspoken.
I hadn’t turned out a tragedy, and it left me feeling like an impostor in the annals of victimhood.
It made me wonder if I’d died and no one had had the heart to tell me.
The trouble was he’d mistaken drama for virtue and suffering for art, and felt impoverished by his own good fortune.
“I tell her that I’ll be here tomorrow, and she says she will, too. When we’re having a hard time. It’s a promise. To at least make it one more day.”
A righteous lie was still a lie. A wicked life was still a life.
I knew that look. Wanting to run without knowing what it was you should be running from.
