kiyohime

Abused kids just hang on so tightly to hope. We cling to every single non-lethal thing done to us as a proof we’re still loved and cared for. We try to freeze time whenever someone is kind to us, to remember how it feels, to recall it again in moments when we need it, when we’re broken. We keep rewinding every second of attention, hanging onto it as if it is the last thing to keep us alive. We believe and we hope and we try to endure and hang in there wishing into existance that our parents love us, that someone loves us. That someone will save us. That we’re worth something. We don’t give up until it’s no longer humanely possible to believe. We fight and erase our own memories without realizing, just to keep ourselves from being devoured by mountains of hate we’re surrounded with.

“No greater desire exists than a wounded person’s need for another wound.”

“So I said: “please love me,” and what I meant was: please treat me gently. Please love me with a love that can be felt. That can be touched. A love that I can write about gracefully if and when it ends. Which I may look upon with pacific eyes, and say: “that was a good love. It had to end but it was good.””