A lot of girls I knew wanted complicated things. Guys who could read their minds, whilst decorating them in diamonds, as if they were Christmas trees as yet uncut, in the middle of an ice storm.
It always seemed to me that getting picked was an ending more than a beginning. Chopped down and carried away home to clean and fetch and cook, until they forgot how to want or dream or even think of things they weren’t told to think.
They got to keep the diamonds, but they had to die a little bit in exchange.
(c) J. A. Brown, Storyteller February 14, 2017 –Exchange- Voices In My Head
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