61
" Hate PoemI hate you truly. Truly I do.Everything about me hates everything about you.The flick of my wrist hates you.The way I hold my pencil hates you.The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.Look out! Fore! I hate you.The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m diggingfrom under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.The history of this keychain hates you.My sigh in the background as you explain relational databaseshates you.The goldfish of my genius hates you.My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.A closed window is both a closed window and an obvioussymbol of how I hate you.My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.My pleasant “good morning”: hate.You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my headunder your arm? Hate.The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My witpractices it.My breasts relaxing in their holster from morningto night hate you.Layers of hate, a parfait.Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each oneindividually and at leisure.My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validityof my hate, which can never have enough of you,Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine. "
63
" Legacies are not just for legends. Whether a million people know your name, or only one person does, you still have the right to leave your mark on the world, even if it’s only in your tiny corner of it, in the tiniest of ways.
Not all of us will achieve great heights and feats. Most of us will never leave our hometown or country, let alone conquer Everest. And you know what? That’s okay.
Because real life is what happens in between moments of greatness. It’s the little things that at the end of it all, you realize were greater than the sum of their parts. It’s the amount of times you laughed, or cried, danced, sang, created, inspired, and made someone smile.
The best kind of legacies are the ones that are unseen. You’ll never fully be able to measure the effect of a smile or a kind word, but I promise you, the most whispered phrase can send a shockwave around the world that lasts for centuries, or even an eternity. "
― A.J. Compton , The Counting-Downers
72
" There is this certain rawness of soul that puts the polished ones on edge. Some of us just step out and the sunlight illuminates our bones, nerves, veins, cells! And that's just it, we're just like that! Then the others are tinted, polished, honed and well-contemplated; when they see you walk in and they can see all of your bones, even the tiniest ones, illuminated and outlined by the sunlight, it makes them feel shaded-in, it makes them feel hidden, it makes them turn their faces away. The way you bleed yourself all over the lines just makes it too uncomfortable for them, I guess. "
― C. JoyBell C.
80
" You know this is wrong." It isn't a question. When he turns, White is still wrapped snug in the counterpane, motionless, just his gaze pursuing the doctor about the room. " I am wrong to do this." The doctor says it as if instructing himself. White says nothing. With a sigh, Archer sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing White's curls back from his forehead. " Do you know what we did last night?" To admit it, to speak out loud, seems in itself a terrible affront. It might be his imagination, but the doctor fancies he sees a slight lowering of black lashes, the tiniest quirk of a shy smile. He says, wearily but not without affection, " No, I don't suppose you do. "