I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.
Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.
I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.
My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.
When you fuck up, and someone points out how you fucked up, no matter how upset you feel about it, take a step back and deal with your fuckup and your feelings separately.
Your apology should be about what you did wrong and how you plan to be better in the future. Thank them for telling you and giving you the chance to realize how messed up it was. You can say you regret your choice.
Your feelings of guilt/embarrassment/etc need to be handled s e p a r a t e l y.
Don’t demand that a person you just hurt comfort you through your feelings about the situation. Don’t expect them to immediately look past what you did - and the hurt it caused them - to reassure you and make you feel less bad about it. Definitely don’t give a half-assed or nonexistent apology and then attack them for causing you to experience a negative emotion.
Just apologize. Process your feelings about the situation separately with someone who agrees to that, who’s not involved in the situation.
And when you do, don’t make yourself out to be a victim there, either. It’s okay to say “What I did was wrong. Being told I was wrong brought up all these feelings I need to process and understand so I can be better.” You don’t have to make the people you hurt sound like bullies to justify being upset.
Please please I want the citation in the book about his hair because I dont remember it aaaaaa (Sorry for bad english ??)
Hey! Sorry it took me a while to get back to you. It was a combination of “Hmm is there anything else you can add?” and “I’ll get back to this later!” LOL
Anyway, here are some excerpts that give the readers some information about Laurent’s hair:
Captive Prince, Chapter 10:
Laurent’s body was a series of graceful lines under the shirt’s soft folds. Damen’s eyes lifted to the white column of his throat, and above that the golden hair, parting around the shell cup of an unjewelled ear. The image was damascened, as beaten metal. He was reading.
Prince’s Gambit, Chapter 2:
In order to begin unlacing the garment, he had to lift his fingers and brush to one side the ends of the gilt hair, soft as fox fur. When he did so, Laurent tipped his head very slightly, offering better access.
Prince’s Gambit, Chapter 14:
Damen looked downwards and saw the way that the white fabric shifted slightly under his thumbs. Laurent’s shirt hung on his body, a containing layer. Then Damen’s eyes travelled up along the balanced nape, to a wick of golden hair tucked behind an ear.
Prince’s Gambit, Chapter 18:
Laurent looked like any young man who has been pressed against a battlement and kissed. The slight disturbance of the hair at Laurent’s nape was wonderful. His hand had lain there.
Kings Rising, Chapter 12:
Damen lifted his hand, slid his fingers into the short, soft hair at the back of Laurent’s neck, cupping his head. They had never been this close, not with the fact of who he was open between them.
There was only the feel of it, the slide of his chest against Laurent’s back, the dip of Laurent’s head, and the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Laurent’s neck.
Kings Rising, Chapter 14:
The light through the trees dappled Laurent’s hair, which was longer now than it had been in the palace, and showing signs of minor disarray.
The Summer Palace:
He remembered - the steam of those other baths, the moment he had caught Laurent’s wrist in his hand. This close, he could see the wet tops of Laurent’s shoulders. Above that, the tips of Laurent’s hair were wet too, from steam or from the splash from the pitcher.
The passage from The Summer Palace (TSP) clearly states that Laurent’s hair is slightly above shoulder length. Since TSP occurs near the end of this series’ timeline AND Chapter 14 of King’s Rising (KR) states that Laurent’s hair grows throughout the trilogy, I can make assumptions of the length of Laurent’s hair from earlier.
I believe that at the beginning of the trilogy, Laurent’s hair is at/around chin level. In Chapter 10 of Captive Prince (CP), Laurent’s hair is described to be tucked behind his ear. Hair that is chin level (speaking from personal experience because mine is that short) is easily able to be tucked behind the ear. Any shorter than chin length is hard to brush behind the ear.
Laurent’s hair is constantly described as at the nape, aka the back of the neck. Since we know that Laurent’s hair is at chin level in CP and is shoulder length in TSP, I can conclude that his hair grows throughout Prince’s Gambit (PG) and KR.
TL;DR - Laurent’s hair begins at chin level, gradually grows throughout the trilogy, and is now at shoulder level. He has “medium” length hair.
Sparta on the day she came home, July 24th 2014. I hope I never forget that day. Bonding and learning took time, but she made it so easy right from the start. I had never owned or even lived with a dog before, but I knew right then we’d make it work.