he showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none.

i thought: I cannot bear this world a moment longer. then, child, make another.

but in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. such a constellation was he to me.

humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. as if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.

you threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you.

but perhaps no parent can truly see their child. when we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.

"you are wise,” he said. “If it is so,” i said, “it is only because i have been fool enough for a hundred lifetimes.

when i was born, the word for what i was did not exist.

he was another knife I could feel it. a different sort, but a knife still. i did not care. i thought: give me the blade. some things are worth spilling blood for.

we are sorry, we are sorry. sorry you were caught, i said. sorry that you thought i was weak, but you were wrong.

but gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. so they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. all that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. it leaves only ash behind.

but there was no wound she could give me that i had not already given myself.

how many of us would be granted pardon if our true hearts were known?

"you have always been the worst of my children," he said. "be sure not to dishonor me." "i have a better idea. i will do as i please, and when you count your children, leave me out."