- Cinda Williams Chima, from The Wizard Heir (via the-final-sentence)
- Wendelin Van Draanen (via lunaoki)
I always feel
in my own skin.
In public places,
I bow my head
and ask to become a disappearing act,
pray that nobody
can see the way
my torso folds
the way my eyelids
clasp like a purse,
the way my hands move
my hair away from my face
as if I am shooing away
a goodbye or a moth.
I stand before a mirror and pull
at my regret.
I name the pieces of skin that I can hold in my hands
The pieces that I can only palm
It is hard to be in a body
that has never felt like your own.
When you cannot even
look at yourself
it is even harder
to stay in it.
Making her fall in love with me was deceptively
easy. She falls in love the way the Earth falls in
spring. I tell her that she looks like pomegranate
sounds, all lush curves and smooth skin. I grip her
pomegranate hips and stare at her pomegranate
mouth, “Did you really believe you could cheat
death?” She laughs and flutters, and a flurry of
epithets flees my head—trapper of butterflies, thief
of life. “I didn’t think I could get away with it.” And
what if the butterfly wants to be kept, what if the
mark of independence is to choose which gilded
cage. What if, to my winged consort, it is never
a cage but a choice. I think of this in her months
away. With her mother. Plucking day blooming
flowers, dancing with nymphs and drinking the
sun. My life is half heaven but always hell. I sit
on my throne in the underworld, judging souls,
waiting for her and peeling apart a pomegranate.
— An Excerpt From the God of the Underworld’s Love Letter to Winter