Category: Brenna Twohy

I would have climbed in the jar if he’d asked me. I would have torn the good wing off myself.

Call me Survivor. It is the ugliest triumph I own, but it is mine. It is mine.

I love the way I know the lie from the beginning. I love the way I can see the turn coming.

‘Something must be growing here, right?’ Because otherwise how do you forgive yourself for your rotting?

He left a piece of himself with you and you are terrified he is coming back for it. Or he left a piece of himself with you and you are terrified he is not coming back for it.

He left a piece of himself with you and you are terrified he is coming back for it. Or he left a piece of himself with you and you are terrified he is not coming back for it.

Hunted girls grow shells & they call us hard women. As if survival could ever be delicate. As if we haven’t been chewing rocks for generations. As if we haven’t been rebuilding our own bones.

The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists and called me a whore, I did not think, ‘Run.’ I thought, ‘This is just like the movies.’

And isn’t this what they taught us back in school? Isn’t this what good wifehood looks like? A hot, hot oven with something bubbling over inside? Dinner on the table and a house of closed mouths?

I did not stop loving him all the months I was holding my breath.