And of how we never really know someone, no matter how much we want to believe that we do.
Laura Wiessthis is no place for miracles
Laura WiessWe're not afraid of the dark. Our nightmares were born on sultry, summer afternoons.
Laura WiessAfter school I all but ran to Gran's and it was funny how even with her so sick, being with her could still make me feel safe.
Laura WiessHe shook his head and gave this laugh, a good laugh, and just looked at me. "You always this happy?"
"No," I said, laughing. "It's you. Every time I see you, I just...I don't know. You make me smile.
We have babies because we want them to love us, to make us important, but the only make us tired and fat and stinking of spit up because they're babies, not saviors. Their fathers leave us, sick of crap and sour milk, sweatpants and tears.
But the babies still need all of us, only there isn't anything left to give because we based our worth on the lowlifes who knocked us up and around.
So our babies end up screwed up and screwed with because not we're single again, too, so we're bringing home guys who secretly like pink satin baby skin more than our silvery stretch marks. We don't see what we should see because having anyone is till supposedly better than being alone.
That was the attorney. He said the doctors are very pleased with your father's progress and that his behavior has been exemplary-'
'Well, that's stupid.' My reaction was rude and raw. 'Of course he's been a model prisoner, Mom. There aren't any kids to molest in prison.
Physical imperfections have always offended him, but apparently my bad hygiene wasn't repellent enough. Perhaps Ms. Mues's full-blown adulthood will be.
Laura WiessWe wait to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one comes. We figure that if no one protects us then we must not be worth protecting so we become prey and are easily picked off. Our wounded, kicked-puppy gazes attract sly predators and we sell ourselves for clearance sale prices, mistaking screwing for caring.
Laura WiessIf I allow my gaze to travel higher-which I won't-I'll see the solid gold basketball charm on a chain that my mother gave him for his eighteenth birthday nestled in his coarse, whorled chest hair.
My front teeth throb as the memory of the charm bangs against them.
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