between my fist and my pollyanna flower...

there wasn't a stone... there was an ackward rock.

"Kingham had said that the thing was unescapable; and if for him it was so, that was due to the need he perversely felt of giving himself over periodically to strong emotions, the need of being humiliated and humiliating, of suffering and making other people suffer. What he had always loved was the passion itself, not the women who were the cause or excuse of it. (...) After a certain amount of indulgence, the need was satisfied and he felt quite free to detach himself from the lover who had been dear to him only as the stimulator of his emotions, not for her own sake."

HUXLEY, Aldous. In.: Two or Three Graces

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Between violence and silently seething

Between my fist and my pollyanna flower

Between "fuck you" to your face and it's alright

Between war and denial

(...)

What am I to do with all this burning?

(I'd like to hurt you but I'd never hurt you)

Do I overwhelm you in this place?

(I'd like to kill you but I'd never kill you)

alanis m.