sideblog

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

me whenever a woman in greek myth gets fed up and destroys the men who've caused her trauma

I want to swallow their souls,

“The best slave does not need to be beaten. She beats herself. Not with a leather whip, or with stick or twigs, not with a blackjack or a billyclub, but with the fine whip of her own tongue & the subtle beating of her mind against her mind. For who can hate her half so well as she hates herself? & who can match the finesse of her self-abuse? Years of training are required for this. Twenty years of subtle self-indulgence, self-denial; until the subject thinks herself a queen & yet a beggar— both at the same time. She must doubt herself in everything but love. She must choose passionately & badly. She must feel lost as a dog without her master. She must refer all moral questions to her mirror. She must fall in love with a Cossack or a poet. She must never go out of the house unless veiled in paint. She must wear tight shoes so she always remembers her bondage. She must never forget she is rooted in the ground. Though she is quick to learn & admittedly clever, her natural doubt of herself should make her so weak that she dabbles brilliantly in half a dozen talents & thus embellishes but does not change our life. If she’s an artist & comes close to genius, the very fact of her gift should cause her such pain that she will take her own life rather than best us. & after she dies, we will cry & make her a saint.”

Dear Sal,

Because, nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you.”