I Left My Mark On That Man.

Last Night It Had Been My Father Who Had Finally Said It: "she’s Never Coming Home." A Clear And Easy Piece Of Truth That Everyone Who Had Ever Known Me Had Accepted. But He Needed To Say It, And She Needed To Hear Him Say It.

I Knew Something As I Watched: Almost Everyone Was Saying Goodbye To Me. I Was Becoming One Of The Many Little-girl-losts. They Would Go Back To Their Homes And Put Me To Rest, A Letter From The Past Never To Be Reopened Or Reread. And I Could Say Goodbye To Them, Wish Them Well, Bless Them Somehow For Their Good Thoughts. A Handshake In The Street, A Dropped Item Picked Up And Retrieved And Handed Back, Or A Friendly Wave From The Distant Window, A Nod, A Smile, A Moment When The Eyes Lock Over The Antics Of A Child.

Since Then I've Always Thought That Under Rape In The Dictionary It Should Tell The Truth. It Is Not Just Forcible Intercourse; Rape Means To Inhabit And Destroy Everything.

Murderers Are Not Monsters, They're Men. And That's The Most Frightening Thing About Them.

I'm Fine With Whatever Comes My Way, And Whatever Doesn't Come My Way I'm Fine With Too. I Have A Very Laissez-faire Attitude With The Whole Thing.