And the sad part is that if I walk around town, I have more chances to see that damn painting hanging on a church’s door, than see Jude anywhere else. 

There is blood on my bedside table. When I ask Jude about it, he tells me this usually happens when there is a hornet trapped in the drawer. “Aren’t you gonna let it out?” I ask. “It’s cold this time of year.”

Either way, I was never particularly keen on ugliness. But I would damn want a couple of unsightly bruises with my writing.

I always look like someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, someone’s niece. I never look like someone’s wife for my hands never…

I’ve been thinking about how I should present this matter gently. Ever since it crept inside of me I’ve felt stones building up into my frame and cavities...

I keep every single piece of me in the attic. My limbs rest on the top of an old washing machine where your shirt got eaten by mold, my...