Violence, Privilege, And The Windy City
One thing this friend said that really struck me was, “Well it’s the gangs. If they gangs keep killing each other, then there will eventually be none left.”
One thing this friend said that really struck me was, “Well it’s the gangs. If they gangs keep killing each other, then there will eventually be none left.”
I remember taking the pen and notebook from that woman outside the courtroom, flipping to a clean page in the book, and writing, JESSICA IS SAD in big, bold, uncoordinated letters. “My sister is going to be a good writer someday! Look at how nice her lines are!”
It’s the skipped beat in my heart, my dragging feet on my way to work. It’s the deep understanding that few other people could ever love me as selflessly and as unconditionally as he did.
Is there not a place on this planet where I can go just be? If Chicago is just as uneasy as Boston, where do I belong?
Here’s the thing — if the only way to get to the road back home is a one lane bridge that’s closed, it’s going to get worse, and it does.
You would look more feminine if you grew it out.
There was just me, and it was peaceful. For the first time in a long time, I was completely alone and it felt incredibly relaxing.
It’s okay to shut yourself and be messy if only for a day. It’s okay to not try and make yourself feel better because you just need to let it all out.
I will know love in my own way. I will be content with my own happily childless path.
This is a love letter to the words that calloused our broken hands when we thought we were already crawling, and mended our broken hearts when we thought they couldn’t break anymore.