“i knew she'd leave me. i figure we might as well go somewhere memorable to fall apart”

“When K & I returned to the gingerbread house after taking Nana home, I was beyond exhausted. But I couldn't sleep, not for a long time. I stayed awake. Thinking of boys, of myself, & of all the intersections in between....Regardless, there were times when I was at least part boy. A femme boy deep down. Shy sweater fag, my cardigan on hand to comfort me in the cold world. Bookworm queer boy at heart, K told me on more than one occasion. Certain moods & I was the most enviable of drag princesses, eyelashes all a-flutter & my fingers tickling the air with each gesture. Sometimes I was full of flirtatious swagger, but that playful swag could turn fierce snarl for defense, if need be. Never, I promised myself one line I wouldn't cross, never would I be the mean kind of boy that laughed me back inside the store's red doors when I did no good at hot afternoon sour pissing contests. Of course, there were plenty of times I was such a fairy lady that I ceased to be even part boy.Yes, Rob would have accused me of bringing the communal growl down for saying I'm part boy. And pre-Stonewall dykes would have wanted to call my game. What kind of dyke was I, anyway? Good question. Simple & complicated all at once, I wasn't a pigeon to be tucked away neatly into a hole. I didn't wear a fixed category without feeling pain. I was more, or less, or something different entirely.”

“I have dozens of loyal fans! Baker's dozens! …they come in thirteens.”

“A statement of truth, and that is: Everything I have accomplished is Thanks to the Lord above, and without him my success would have been impossible.”

“Everything's such an effort, even caring a little. Even being such a gigantic fuck-up wears me out. ”

“Almost EasterShaking bone mealfrom my bare handsinto the rose bedwhere only one bush grows,I feel as if I’m scatteringmy father’s ashesall over again.This month marksthe seventh yearmy father has lainin my garden,his ashes in my handsstill as palpableas bone meal or thorns.Easter Sunday,I will hide an eggbehind his ear.Jesus will call down to himto get up and play.He won’t.But the rose bushthat is turning green,this rose will sink its rootsa little deeper in the earthand in a few monthsdrop its petalslike so many red tears.— Felicia Mitchell”

“..Cinta itu sesuatu yang misterius. Lebih misterius dari segitiga bermuda atau puncak gunung himalaya. Kita gak akan bisa menduganya..”