Today at random I pulled a book from the shelves, The Miracle of the Rose, by Jean Genet:
"I think it is the rigours of prison that drive us toward each other in bursts of love without which we could not live; unhappiness is the enchanted poison."
Tonight I am crying angry.
I know this is beautiful, for not being easy.
X, where I got it from.
I'm craving safety, arms, breath. I want to sleep inside the shadow of your care. If darkness is an intimacy.
I had a good cry to myself. Now I'm going to tell you this story.