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I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.

Ann Aguirre

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Ann Aguirre
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: August 27
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
the United States of America
Ellen Connor
Ava Gray
Explosions
Survive
Minefield
Truly
Minefields
Head
Strewn
Maybe
Wreckage
Really
Emerges
Think
Explosion
Thinking
Triggers

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She carries chaos like an overcoat.
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While sight may deceive you, touch rarely does.
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After people have gone, you forget their faults, and you recall the ideal more than the person.
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He has to take me as I am, broken bits and all.
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Men can be very stupid. We cease to value what we have until it's gone, and only then do we realize the gold we glimpsed in distant hills pales as dross compared to treasure we had in hand.
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Here in the enclave, one didn't prosper by demonstrating too much independent thought.
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I'll always want him. Until every sun goes dark in every sky, until I am nothing more than long-forgotten cosmic dust, I will want him. And even then I suspect my particles will long for his.
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Not just when its easy. All the time.
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Show, not tell, right? Action, not words. You don’t want to hear how sorry I am or how things will be different this time. You want to see it with your own eyes. And until I can show you that, you won’t tell me what I want to hear.
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Through the damp fabric of my coverall, bundled in my blanket, I feel naked. Raw. He sees more than I want, more than I can bear. It’s like standing before him ... while he stares at my scars, pitiless and unmoved.
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But wishes were empty thoughts, cast down a dark hole. They didn't come true unless you worked for them. I'd learned that about the world, if nothing more.
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A huntress never stabbed anything she didn't want to.
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Is that love? It seems like a pale word, too easily tossed about by people who don’t know the meaning of it, who twist it for their own ends. I’m afraid of it now, right up there with clowns, close spaces, and open flames.
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I’m sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.
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Beautiful. And ugly. The world is always both.
Ann Aguirre
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. . . and I don’t expect him to suborn his life into mine any more than I would change my dreams for him. We’re not one soul, one being, however much we love each other.
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Sometimes broken things heal crooked. The pieces didn’t fit anymore.
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Because it takes more courage to heal the world's hurts than to inflict them.
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Love can make us do dreadful things.
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We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.
Ann Aguirre