To think, a sweater, is made entirely of knots. My stomach could clothe a village. - Andrea Gibson

My mother says it is totally fine
if I blow off steam
as long as I speak in an octave
my kindness can still reach.

You have to understand, when it hurt to love her, it hurt the way the light hurts your eyes in the middle of the night. But I had to see.

What if I don't want the monster
to stop being a monster?

What if that's the only anchor I have left?
What if my sanity depends on being able to point
at a bad thing and say, That is the bad thing.

Haven't I already lost enough time
losing track of who the enemy is?
I've spent half of my life not knowing the difference

between killing myself and fighting back.