We Turn Skeletons Into Goddesses And Look

After A Lifetime Of Silence, It Is Difficult Then To Speak.

I Do Not Remember Very Many Things From The Inside Out. I Do Not Remember What It Felt Like To Touch Things, Or How Bathwater Traveled Over My Skin. I Did Not Like To Be Touched, But It Was A Strange Dislike. I Did Not Like To Be Touched Because I Craved It Too Much. I Wanted To Be Held Very Tight So I Would Not Break. Even Now, When People Lean Down To Touch Me, Or Hug Me, Or Put A Hand On My Shoulder, I Hold My Breath. I Turn My Face. I Want To Cry.

When You Believe That You Are Not Worthwhile In And Of Yourself, In The Back Of Your Mind You Also Begin To Believe That Life Is Not Worthwhile In And Of Itself. It Is Only Worthwhile Insofar As It Relates To Your Crusade. It Is A Kamikaze Mission.

One Really Ought To Be Afraid Of Self-torture. But It Tempted Me. It Begged. The Dark Place That My Mind Was Fast Becoming Blends, In My Memory, With The Dark Womb Of Church: The Chant, The Fugue Of Prayer, The Strange Erotic Energy That Carving A Very Small Cross Into My Thigh With A Nail Had Brought.

Starvation Is Incredibly Frightening When It Finally Sets In With A Vengeance. And When It Does,you Are Surprised. You Hadn't Meant This. You Say: Wait, Not This. And Then It Sucks You Under And You Drown.