Nothing could be taken from me, I tought, if I had already given it away.
In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same.
They say nothing lasts forever but they're just scared it will last longer than they can love it.
To look at something is to fill your whole life with it, if only briefly.
You spoke carefully, as if the story was a flame in your hands in the wind.
Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.
Violence was already mundane to me, was what I knew, ultimately, of love.
Why did I feel more myself while reaching for him, my hand midair, than I did having touched him?
I who was taught, by you, to be invisible in order to be safe.
You once told me that memory is a choice. But if you were a god, you'd know it's a flood.
Memory is a choice. You said that once, with your back to me, the way a god would say it.
Perhaps to lay hands on your child is to prepare him for war.
I didn't know that the war was still inside you, that there was a war to begin with, that once it enters you it never leaves.
If she hadn't in some way filled the void he left she would have fallen into it and died.
I discovered that I had a space inside me that could swallow up every feeling in a very short time.
Maybe at that moment something somewhere in my body broke, maybe that's where I could locate the end of my childhood.
I slipped away, and am still slipping away, withing these lines that are intended to give me a story, while in fact I am nothing, nothing of my own, nothing that has really begun or really been brought to completion: only a tangled knot.
All the best ones went. We were left with the lesser ones. It's always like that in war.
'I love you,' I tell her.
'That's a terrible thing to say to a girl,' she replies
What are the old for, if not to envy the young?