prepare for mind-blowing.

Wild women never could hide their innocence- a kind of pity-kitty hopefulness that their prince was on his way. Especially the tough ones with their box cutters and dirty language, or the glossy ones with two-seated cars and a pocketbook full of dope. Even the ones who wear scars like presidential medals and stockings rolled at their ankles can’t hide the sugar child, the winsome baby girl curled up somewhere inside, between the ribs, say, or under the heart. Naturally all of them have a sad story: too much notice, not enough, or the worst kind.  Some tale about dragon daddies and false-hearted men, or mean mamas and friends who did them wrong. Each story has a monster in it who made them tough instead of brave, so they open their legs rather than their hearts where that folded child is tucked.

-       Toni Morrison, Love.

I would like to personally congratulate you if you read that excerpt with openness . Toni Morrison has a way of speaking to your demons and leaving you stark-naked in her diction. Toni Morrison is my favorite author for two reasons: First, she has a reading of her race, gender, and era that far exceeds her literary contemporaries. Two, she is the shit.


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