Wednesday, 5 February 2014

A small, purposeful extraction

We convince ourselves we are unimpeachable things, but sometimes we are still capable of running face-first into the wall.

The things that steep her in fury are so eternal, so common, she feels a fool to say them again. Stupid, thick-tongued wealth. Pure dumb privilege. Never—never—getting the strive.

And, then again, the things that steep her in fury are so intensely personal she can barely choke them up in her throat. This girl is sick of backbends, of being the bigger person. This girl would like to spit on all of your shoes.

They say that time is the great healer but sometimes time just hides the things that bile us, tucks them in pirate chests and wardrobes, squirrels them out of sight. And all of us, eventually, dig up our nuts.

We convince ourselves we are over it, as if it was a thing that stayed stable as a mountain, as if when you’d climbed it once you were free to slide. We forget that it keeps sprouting. Goddamn tendrils everywhere. Still.

Still. Here are three things that make this girl grin: a desk covered in the first daffodils of the season. Dolly Parton so very very loud. A small, purposeful extraction of this life from that.

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