Good Me, Bad Me

More disturbing than hurt is love when it's wrong.

The brain of a psychopath is different from most, I've weighed up my chances. Eighty per cent genetics, twenty per cent environment. Me. One hundred per cent fucked.

A Native American tale where the Cherokee tells his grandson there’s a battle between two wolves in all of us. One is evil, the other good. The boy asks him, Which wolf wins? The Cherokee tells him, The one you feed.

When Peter says to Wendy: “Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown-up things again,” I remember thinking, I’d like to go there. Please.

You broke my heart. You broke my. You broke. You. And me.

Forgiving, that's what she is, and lonely. A person can forgive a lot if they need the company.

Beauty gives a person power. And camouflage.

A hypervigilance, never knowing what to expect, but knowing to expect something.

Transference is a process by which someone unconsciously transfers feelings about a person in their past on to a person or situation in their present.’ ‘I was only trying to thank her.

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes. Carson McCullers, 1917–1967

IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING GOOD IN YOUR LIFE, DON'T LET IT GO.

Fa male. Fa male essere il bersaglio di Phoebe, ma è pur sempre una forma di inclusione, a un certo livello. Un'opportunità di imparare, e io ne ho tanta voglia. Adesso sono la maestra di me stessa, anche se le tue lezioni continuano a riecheggiare nella mia mente.

Against the rules. She's on it, like a hound on a fox. 'Her name is Annie.

A wave. Raw. Sadness washes over me as I'm dismissed. I don't move, I look at the screen. I want to run to you, crawl up inside you back into your womb. Rewrite a history where this time you'd love me normally. Shiny and new.

Dragged from your room. A red crease of sleep visible down your cheek, eyes foggy with the adjustment from a state of rest to a state of arrest. You said nothing. Even when your face was mashed into the carpet, your rights read out, their knees and elbows pressed in your back. Your nightie rode high up your thighs. No underwear. The indignity of it all.

Guns held in praying hands, flat against their chests. The thrill of the search, along with the terror of the truth, etched in equal measure on their faces.

You turned your head to the side. Faced me. Your eyes never left mine, I read them with ease. You said nothing to them, yet everything to me. I nodded. But only when no one was watching.