Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

03 February, 2008

We wait to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one comes. We figure that if no one protects us, we must not be worth protecting so we become prey and are easily picked off. Our wounded, kicked-puppy gaze attracts sly predators and we sell ourselves for clearance sale prices, mistaking screwing for caring.

We binge, purge, sleep around. We drink too much and get too high, anything to blot out the past. We accept and endure beatings and humiliations because our fathers, our uncles, and our mothers' twisted boyfriends said they loved us, too, right before they broke our bones and tore our flesh, right before they made us receive them.
- Laura Weiss, Such a Pretty Girl


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