● scheda pg 022

nance.

1967

Did I disappoint you?
Did mommy make you sad?
Do I at least remind you Of every girl that made you mad?
Make me perfect, make me your fantasy
You know I deserve it, Well, take it out on me
Am I your dream girl?

nome. we argue in the kitchen about whether to have children, about the world ending and the scale of my ambition
cognome. the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most / but you need your rotten heart, your dazzling pain like diamond rings, you need to go to war to find material to sing
data di nascita. but a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape / just when you think you have it figured out something new begins to take
famiglia. what strangе claws are these scratching at my skin, I nеver knew my killer would be coming from within
razza. and I was never as good as I always thought I was, but I knew how to dress it up
allineamento. I was never satisfied, it never let me go, just dragged me by my hair and back on with the show

nancy goddamn
wheeler.

i look at him with the nostalgic affection men are said to feel for their wars, their fellow veterans. i think, i once threw things at this man. i threw a glass ashtray, a fairly cheap one which didn't break. i threw a shoe (his) and a handbag (mine), not even snapping the handbag shut first, so that he was showered with a metal rain of keys and small change. the worst thing i threw was a small portable television set, standing on the bed and heaving it at him with the aid of the bouncy springs, although the instant i let fly i thought, oh god, let him duck! i once thought i was capable of murdering him. today i feel only a mild regret that we were not more civilized with each other at the time. still, it was amazing, all those explosions, that recklessness, that technicolor wreckage. amazing and agonizing and almost lethal.

i look at him with the nostalgic affection men are said to feel for their wars, their fellow veterans. i think, i once threw things at this man. i threw a glass ashtray, a fairly cheap one which didn't break. i threw a shoe (his) and a handbag (mine), not even snapping the handbag shut first, so that he was showered with a metal rain of keys and small change. the worst thing i threw was a small portable television set, standing on the bed and heaving it at him with the aid of the bouncy springs, although the instant i let fly i thought, oh god, let him duck! i once thought i was capable of murdering him. today i feel only a mild regret that we were not more civilized with each other at the time. still, it was amazing, all those explosions, that recklessness, that technicolor wreckage. amazing and agonizing and almost lethal.

segni particolari. we argue in the kitchen about whether to have children, about the world ending and the scale of my ambition
istruzione. the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most / but you need your rotten heart, your dazzling pain like diamond rings, you need to go to war to find material to sing
bacchetta. but a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape / just when you think you have it figured out something new begins to take
potere. what strangе claws are these scratching at my skin, I nеver knew my killer would be coming from within

i know i must behave to contain all my emotion, but i want to love a boy the way i love the ocean. like a hidden cave i am always open, i hold the space you made - i'm empty but still hoping. i have a feeling, a terrible fear encroaching, that i'll never love a boy the way i love the ocean.


i look at him with the nostalgic affection men are said to feel for their wars, their fellow veterans. i think, i once threw things at this man. i threw a glass ashtray, a fairly cheap one which didn't break. i threw a shoe (his) and a handbag (mine), not even snapping the handbag shut first, so that he was showered with a metal rain of keys and small change.


i look at him with the nostalgic affection men are said to feel for their wars, their fellow veterans. i think, i once threw things at this man. i threw a glass ashtray, a fairly cheap one which didn't break. i threw a shoe (his) and a handbag (mine), not even snapping the handbag shut first, so that he was showered with a metal rain of keys and small change.


i look at him with the nostalgic affection men are said to feel for their wars, their fellow veterans. i think, i once threw things at this man. i threw a glass ashtray, a fairly cheap one which didn't break. i threw a shoe (his) and a handbag (mine), not even snapping the handbag shut first, so that he was showered with a metal rain of keys and small change.

steve.

1966

They told me all of my cages were mental
So I got wasted like all my potential
And my words shoot to kill when I'm mad
I have a lot of regrets about that
I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere
Fell behind on my classmates, and I ended up here
Pouring out my heart to a stranger, But I didn't pour the whiskey

nome. I would say I'm sorry if I thought that it would change your mind, but I know that this time I have said too much, been too unkind
cognome. I tried to laugh about it, cover it all up with lies / I tried to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes cause boys don't cry
data di nascita. I would break down at your feet and beg forgiveness, plead with you, but I know that it's too late and now there's nothing I can do
famiglia. I would tell you that I loved you if I thought that you would stay but I know that it's no use and you've already gone away
razza. misjudged your limits, pushed you too far, took you for granted / thought that you needed me more, more, more
allineamento. now I would do most anything to get you back by my side, but I just keep on laughing, hiding the tears in my eyes cause boys don't cry

steve the hair
harrington.

I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. my tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. this, and this, and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender, or too slow. this and this and this! I taught him how to skip stones, and he taught me how to carve wood. I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin.

I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. my tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. this, and this, and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender, or too slow. this and this and this! I taught him how to skip stones, and he taught me how to carve wood. I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin.

segni particolari. I would say I'm sorry if I thought that it would change your mind, but I know that this time I have said too much, been too unkind
istruzione. I tried to laugh about it, cover it all up with lies / I tried to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes cause boys don't cry
bacchetta. I would break down at your feet and beg forgiveness, plead with you, but I know that it's too late and now there's nothing I can do
potere. I would tell you that I loved you if I thought that you would stay but I know that it's no use and you've already gone away

if I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. but there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. as if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “patroclus,” he said. he was always better with words than I.


if I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. but there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. as if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “patroclus,” he said. he was always better with words than I.


if I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. but there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. as if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “patroclus,” he said. he was always better with words than I.


The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.