Best 19 quotes of Miriam Joy on MyQuotes

But nobody writes fairy tales about the ugly and poems are not there for the broken and I will never find myself in the words of a hymn nor will any whispered prayer ever say my name (which name, which me am I looking for?) because I am shouting at a cross splintered into pieces by my angry fists, and crying at the stained glass falling like killing rain around me.

But you are a god here in brokenness, a bloody Eden born at your feet.

Her eyes are like bruises, as though 2am punches her in the face every time they meet amid the faded glow of alarm-clock hands and the crumpled sheets of a sleepless night.

I am still trying and trying to exorcise you but you cling to me like mud or bloodstains, like a battlefield fought in my imagination every day that I raise my pen against the sword you used to slice my heart into small, bitter pieces.

I cannot love my neighbour as myself because you bid me do him no harm, and I cannot love my enemies because they keep crawling inside me and tearing out all my emotions: if I am made in your image then you are not somebody I want to see because why believe in the broken, why depend on the weak, why seek the lost and bewildered whose only answer is “please”?

I cut off all my hair, cut away at the soft curves of my clothing until I have edges once again, using my body like broken glass to slice at the world around me. I have to take something back, because I have nothing more to give. Eloi, eloi, lema sabachthani?

I felt happier yesterday. I do not feel happy today – I feel abandoned and godless and broken in a church built for the damned with artificial light through stained glass and warped wooden doors.

In July I think about the idea of being cursed (because it’s not strange to me; when I look in mirrors I’m not there, blank walls gleaming with bloody condensation, and my shadow behind me mocking me with his persistence when I keep telling him to leave just to leave to let me be).

In May I keep count. Two and a half more days of school; five between exams. Twenty thousand words of a novel and four poems and six borrowed books. More numbers to add to counting my pills and trying to work out how to stay awake.

In my mind he is a demon and a god and I blame him, I blame him, I blame him for the world I created on my own as much as the one he built around me.

In the darkness and the snow, the street is empty and it is just the night, the ice and me.

It’s voyeuristic the way you search for answers in these cries for help, and how you see Death’s fingers but always think they’re paintbrushes.

I want her sinful arms wrapped around me, bloodied and angry and triumphant in shame.

I want to feel them against my bare skin. I want their colourful touch to burn itself into my body and set my blood on fire with chemicals and fury, to drag me from a place of retreat and smothered tears into destruction and gloriously bright fire falling.

Some people unfold into a thousand words and others never speak to me at all, never take the blame at all, never look at me at all – I wonder why he never looks at me at all (perhaps he cannot bear to meet my eyes).

There are, in places, fallen angels who in their iniquity and desolation linger like a stranger on a foggy night, sustained by the misdeeds of city-dwellers and spurred on by bitter hatred for their bright kin moving past them.

When I wake from my nightmares I’m more afraid of the breath in my lungs than whatever might be chasing me.

Words do not come back to me easily, so I pull out my heart and wrap it in a thin sheet of paper, let the blood seep across in stanzas of honesty and hand it to anyone who will take it so that the still-beating heart can tell them all my secrets, all my weaknesses, because if they are not hidden they cannot be taken and used against me.

You have constellations growing under your skin. starlight in the blood spilled when they stole your feathers