Oh, Baba Yaga: A Good Score Is Between 40 and 60

I love that my soul is in ten sweeping universes as we speak. I love that however terrible forty-five minutes can go, a weekend approaches. With dancing and ill, malformed, delighted wiggling and sweet wine. I love that there is purple hair dye in my bathroom calling me. I love that silk robe that seems to make the world on my shoulders feel escapable by parachute. I love the kind whispers saying the kind words, all done as if we’re in a film noir. I love that I saved myself. I love that I knew what to do and did it. I love that I am willing to throw myself into the fire and burn myself to bones for a good idea. I love that piercing eye.

And the Sun Burns Into Your Eyes

Those hopes to exist without risk, without presence or engagement, or bearing the weight of being the object in the lesson, they’re actually as unhelpful as a bathing suit in a blizzard. Because this isn’t that kind of life. As painful as the change thus far has been, it is not even the beginning of it.

Artemis

This is a girl who could be mistaken for another girl and not as she is, a keeper of shadow and goblin-teeth.