Sublime

It’s up to me how I want to be.

All we knew was our empty home. Our mother’s despair.

To have the audacity to be and love and know yourself in a world content to have you live your days in hiding—this is bliss.

I long for a mutiny of space.

Loving her taught me to be a woman who wants proof of love. Maybe there is no other kind of woman. I struggle to feel loved in my lover’s absence. I suffer a kind of emotional object impermanence: out of sight, out of existence. And my beloved was almost always absent. And frequently unavailable. To say that it was painful is an understatement. To

The work is to crumble the barriers of injustice and shame leveled against us so that we might access what we have always been, because we will, if unobstructed, inevitably grow into the purpose for which we were created: our own unique version of that oak tree.

She had never understood how people could parade themselves on a stage like that, exhibit their precious private identities; shake themselves about; be very foolish for a thousand eyes. She was going to keep herself to herself. She did not want fame. She did not want to be a “star.”