You will find someone who loves your wildness, your pain, your past, your ugliness, your flaws, all of it. If you stay vulnerable, if you keep telling the truth about who you are without fear, you will find someone who’s trustworthy enough and strong enough to leap into the unknown with you. You will find someone who isn’t afraid. Forgive this poor guy. He is very fucking afraid.
He tells me he is giving me a gift. He moves silently, but one of his feet ends in scales and claws, and there are feathers on his back that ripple like water.
Yes, I did just quote myself to you.
When I was thirteen, I had a friend who used to like to take morbid pictures. She would insist we dress up like corpses, lipstick smeared red across our mouths, our shirts pulled down low, exposing bras filled with more padding than flesh. We took turns perfecting a stare that looked through the camera, through each other. When my mother found the pictures, she cried. She asked me why we did it — why did we want to dress up like the dead. I told her I didn’t know.
I don’t know how true that is. There was something thrilling about it: We were performing possibilities — the gruesome ways we could be hurt, made glamorous through cheap make up and the flash on a disposable camera. We staged them, shot them, bought and paid for them. They were ours.