I am not shining and beautiful, I am not a white light. I am not a good, glowing girl. I am not happiness and sunshine, I do not turn my back on the dark and squalid things and think that if I pretend they aren't there, everything will be peachy keen. I don't believe in that kind of peach. I am not going to be a hall of refuge; a soft, kind, gentle place.

We pucks are old and wild. We are hard and full of the brutal, black places. We laugh to keep from screaming, we laugh till we cry.

And I understand why, the probably why. I understand because she is not either. And I understand why she wants to pretend.

I do not think that this (well, alone) makes me a bad person.

<<agé chose>>

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