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[vetsin_overdose]

Last night I was reading some poems, and feeling a bit suicidal, I took the time to underline some of the lines I really thought were appropriate for the moment. Now that I'm happy, I still like the lines, but I read them now with the amused detachment of someone who has recently just got out of a stinking, cheating rut. Here are some

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[anonymous]

Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings, I can stroke myself, under the dry white sheets, in the dark, but I too am dry and white, hard, granular; it's like running my hand over a plateful of dried rice; it's like snow. There's something dead about it, something deserted. I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor.

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

--tina