THE EYES OF THE QUEEN.

…Years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute.

all my grief says the same thing: this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. and the world laughs. holds my hope by the throat. says: but this is how it is

I never had illusions about the possibility of my being very lonely.

her eyes hold thunder and her blood is magma. what matters love to a goddess of death?

If I am anything, it is violence.

One learns so much by keeping quiet and listening.

I’ve never been good at emotional stuff. Except anger. Anger, I’m good at.

Let no one think of me that I am humble or weak or passive; let them understand I am of a different kind: dangerous to my enemies, loyal to my friends.

For what is delusion but the prelude to hurt. And what is hurt but the prelude to rage.

Your resting state is war. It’s your nature.

I’ve noticed after a few sips of tea, the tip of her tongue, thin and red with heat, quickens when she describes her cuts and bruises—deep violets and red.

When I say “body,” I mean weapon.

and that was the thing about her, she kept on surviving. with bullet holes in her lungs, and knife marks etched in her back. she never let anything get in her way, resilient. a fighter, not by choice. but a warrior at heart.