January, is a starry purple hued bruise and looks like comforting and equally bewitching smiles of them, the ones who haunt me in my dreams.

For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.

It's a profoundly strange feeling, to stumble across someone whose desires are shaped so closely to your own, like reaching toward your reflection in a mirror and finding warm flesh under your fingertips. If you should ever be lucky enough to find that magical, fearful symmetry, I hope you're brave enough to grab it with both hands and not let go.

There was no room, it turned out, for little girls who wandered off the edge of the map and told the truth about the mad, impossible things they found there.

"January dry, hard, glittering, cold, and the wicked beauty of the scraped blue skies."

January. The month in which you still are healing from the past year and dreading the new one. Should I be hopeful? Should I open my heart, just for it to be broken again?

"For each of us as women, there is a dark place within where hidden and growing our true spirit rises."