She was a blend of rage and love. Of oud and tobacco and long nights at the ranch. She was gratitude and agony. She was food stamps and laundry quarters and she never went to bed before 2 a.m. Her smile was warm but reluctant, she loved traumatically but selflessly. She never yelled, only at everyone. But only because she cared. She cared about everything so intensely. She was curiosity and endless wisdom, but most of all she was love. And she was angry. But even her angry was love.
She was pain and she was secrets and she was almost never enough, but she loved. She radiated it. I tell you- everything about her radiated love, even her rage. She never swore, only always. And always with love.
She was back to school clothes two weeks too late and was ashamed she took the bus. She was always losing all her things, but she never forgot your birthday. She was amazing at giving gifts. She could see through your soul, but she was paranoid. Always wondering what the world thought of her. She was scraped knees and tangled hair and she hit the swings so hard her stomach dropped. She was Sunday morning alabanzas and she was Sunday night soul searching. She was broken yet whole, and she was lowkey Jewish. She was mommy and daddy issues. She was never depressed, only completely. But only because she was love.
She was a sponge of love. Soaking up people’s pain before they had a chance to feel it. She had suffered enough for everyone. She was lusted and she was desired but she was unloved. She was stress eating and she was depression drinking and she fucking hated being embarrassed. She worked to heal the world and the world healed her, but sometimes it just pissed her off.
She was a blend of anger and everything, she never slept in the car and she was always bare foot. But most of all, she was love.