Brenda Shaughnessy Famous Quotes
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It seems unlikely that so much literature
could be made from twenty-six letters.
Doesn't it seem it could all be boiled
down to one sentence?
And now we eat. The eponymous eating. Don't want butter, don't want salt. Dinner is thinner but it's not my fault.
I'm Perfect at Feelings,
so I have no problem telling you
why you cried over the third lost
metal or the mousetrap. I knew
that orgasms weren't your fault
and that feeling of keeping solid
in yourself but wanting an ecstatic
black hole was just bad beauty.
Certain loves were perfect
in the daytime and had every
right to express carnally behind
the copy machine and there are
no hard feelings for the boozy
sodomy and sorry XX daisy chain,
whenever it felt right for you.
And when the moment of soft
levitation with erasing hands
made you feel dirty, like
the main person to think up love
in the first place, I knew that.
It's okay, you're an innocent
with the brilliance of an animal
stuffing yourself sick on a kill.
Don't, don't feel like the runt alien
on my ship: I get you. I know
the dimensions of your wishing
and losing and don't think you
a glutton with petty beefs. But
even I, who know your triggers,
your emblematic sacs of sad fury,
I understand why the farthest fat trees
sliver down with your disappointment
and why the big sense of the world,
wrong before you, shrugs but
somewhere grasps your spinning,
stunning, alone. But you have me.
Strength means honoring your entire range of emotion, even your despair and heartbreak.
All gifts are riddles, all lives/are in the middle of mother-lives.
Death and life are, for most of us, too complex to comprehend, but Alex Lemon can pretty casually, accurately, and marvelously correlate them to heavy metal and birthday cake.
Would I dance with you? Both forever and rather die. / It would be like dying, yes. Yes I would.
You are not broken. You break again
and again because
that's what breaking means.
To be whole.
Grilled peaches on shortbread with raspberries and black pepper ice cream.
We're all out, said the communicative waiter.
That was twelve years ago.
What if all possible
pain was only the grief of truth?
Where can we
go if not to each other,
resenting every step?
