Beginning, middle, or end, you make me the happiest I've been. That's real. That exists.
( the happiest i've been in a long time, she writes on her first draft, only — that isn't true. sometimes, she wonders if she came out of the womb unhappy, thrust from the warmth of her mother into the cradle of a world she somehow knew would be cold toward her. if it would have been to stay inside, safe and protected, than to face the rest of her story. chapter one: the blurry memory of her mother's face, fading with each anniversary that marked her parent's deaths. chapter two: stolen moments of innocent joy between children that hadn't known there was worse yet to come. chapter three: the kind of happiness that domestic pets know, before they've realized they're kept, collared things. chapter four, a greater truth: saints don't get to be happy. )
I don't think there is a reason. Not for me, anyway. I'm not special. It feels like fate spun a wheel, and landed on me. Like some awful, cosmic joke.
( we don't have to talk about it. and here she is, talking about it, when it's the last thing she wants to do. she scrubs at her face, pinches her eyes until the moisture stops threatening to swell. )
Actually, I think it's serendipitous timing. You think I'm hot?
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( the happiest i've been in a long time, she writes on her first draft, only — that isn't true. sometimes, she wonders if she came out of the womb unhappy, thrust from the warmth of her mother into the cradle of a world she somehow knew would be cold toward her. if it would have been to stay inside, safe and protected, than to face the rest of her story. chapter one: the blurry memory of her mother's face, fading with each anniversary that marked her parent's deaths. chapter two: stolen moments of innocent joy between children that hadn't known there was worse yet to come. chapter three: the kind of happiness that domestic pets know, before they've realized they're kept, collared things. chapter four, a greater truth: saints don't get to be happy. )
I don't think there is a reason. Not for me, anyway.
I'm not special. It feels like fate spun a wheel, and landed on me.
Like some awful, cosmic joke.
( we don't have to talk about it. and here she is, talking about it, when it's the last thing she wants to do. she scrubs at her face, pinches her eyes until the moisture stops threatening to swell. )
Actually, I think it's serendipitous timing.
You think I'm hot?