Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get—a cold sick feeling, deep down inside—when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don’t want it to, but you can’t stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that you will never again quite be the same person you were.
— Jennifer Donnelly, A Northern Light
I had to spit your name out of my mouth
because it stood on the backs of my teeth
and I kept cutting my tongue on it.
My poems for you came out in some weird hue
I’ve never seen before with
undertones of desperation.
I’m tired of it.
— 3:58 p.m. (I’m going to stop writing about you)
14. Doing something they don’t normally do