if her torso weren’t hollow, if her body didn’t hang languidly so that gravity ceased to have meaning and she could not create the tension to push herself up from the earth, if she weren’t limp and loose and floating in a sea of pain, pain, pain, no sharpness, no point where knife met flesh, just a dead, dull ache at the core of her, inextricably tangled in veins and follicles so that there was nothing to fight with or against, no barrier between herself and what she w...
Posted by
Amelie
Thursday, January 19, 2012 at 10:02 PM
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Perhaps I am cursed with an exceptionally long memory. Perhaps my memory, in addition to being terrifyingly long, is also extremely precise, and this is why when I imagine my childhood I understand that there was never any innocence to be lost. Others speak of a warm, safe place—they call it home—and some being, god or parent, whom they once believed omnipotent. Then there is the Fall (I love this narrative) and they receive the knowledge that their omnipotent force never had their best interest at heart, or was itself imperfect, and that home may have been...
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