So I talked Matt, my wonderful boyfriend, into reading our series (he’s currently on Brisingr). Good news: he loves it. Better news: he’s a huge dork about it like I am (like we are :P haha) and just about killed me yesterday from laughter.
Matt: *sticking tongue out with his mouth open*
Me: What the hell are you doing?
Matt: *looks me up and down like I’m crazy. Repeats gesture*
Me: Hahahahhaha really? What areee you doing?
Matt (as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world): I’m smelling the air. Like a dragon.
There’s a passage where Saphira does it and I just couldn’t.. So fucking funny. God. Hahahaha.
The first time you learn about shame it’s with God on your tongue and doubt in between your crooked teeth, scabs on your knees that aren’t from praying and the bible burning through the wood of your nightstand. The second time you find shame it’s naked and moaning in your father’s VCR, burning behind your eyelids because you didn’t close your eyes fast enough — because you didn’t want to. The third time it’s with your cousin’s hand flat, flat, flat on your chest, the seventh it’s struggling to breathe in between the place where his open lips meet your closed ones, between the space where his tongue meets the shell of your right ear and his nose meets the quiet corner of your neck you’ll save for a boy you think you could love. The twenty eighth leaves a bloody trail all the way down to the river that’s in the side of town your mother tells you not to go to, and the twenty ninth is in your cousin’s stare as she kisses a boy her father don’t trust and wraps her legs around his waist like she knows about sex. The thirtieth you bury on your mom’s shoulders when you apologize, and the fiftieth stares at you where you stand tall in the mirror, much taller than the first boy who ever treats you nice and smiles at you like you’re worth something. The hundredth time you find shame it’s in the English language and the hard edges of your tongue. The three hundredth time it wakes you up in a hospital bed with your mother and father by the bedside wondering where they went wrong and reminds you that bruises still bloom even if you can’t remember who planted them. The four hundredth time it’s toxic and burning behind your eyes so you can’t watch as mostly everyone leaves and you stay, you stay, you stay. The five hundredth makes you stronger, and the five hundred and fiftieth makes your spine curve when you try to hide and reminds you you’ve still got a backbone underneath. When you stop praying the bible buried underneath your bed remains quiet and hell doesn’t burn hotter, doesn’t burn at all, and when your cousin calls you for the first time in seven or ten years you answer because you want him to know that he didn’t break you. The next time you find shame, in the all curves of your body that aren’t supposed to be there, in the way your voice wavers, and in all the words you can’t make sound right, you remember that shame is a shortcut to bravery, an excuse to show the world the desperate strength of a coward’s backbone.
I legitimately wonder the weirdest things. Like I just wondered if other people have sex as much as I do. Cause it’s a lot haha. Or is it? I mean, I don’t know. That’s why I wondered it. But I feel like its a weird thing to wonder about…