What is success? It is being able to go to bed each night with your soul at peace.
I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.
When She told me what happened, how their rough filthy hands had touched her, I grew angry and hot. My fists clenched up and my body grew ridged with hatred. It built as she shakily recalled to me how it happened. But it was her face. Her precious face that I looked at every day with so much admiration, her mouth that never stopped smiling, was pursed and quivering, her eyes that revealed her constantly turning mind full of ideas. Fuck, I could see the petrified stare. I realized angry couldn’t save her, angry couldn’t even help her. Anger is a small word for the ferocity and bitter putricidy I felt burning for these men. But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t hate enough to ever take it away. She had enough hurt. So I pulled up close to her and made myself large as I could, to protect her from the rest of the empty room and all the following silence held. And there was love, because I love her and her beautiful eyes, because she may not know I admire her in that sort of way where you love someone without any pity but with utmost respect. Because she is precious and no one should fear anything in their lives the way they made her fear the words coming out of her mouth. She spoke like a confession, and that made me sick because nothing was her fault and I despised anyone who dared say it was. So I loved her, feeling helplessly like that wasnt enough. It never would be enough. But I need you to know that, everyday to know that your perfect and beautiful and that they can’t take any of that from you. I would swear to it that you’re precious and flawless and safe here. Every inche.