Forever and Ever
My mother prays to be afflicted with stigmata. This is not a metaphor. She begs God to open up holes in her palms so that she will bleed hot blood onto everything she touches. She believes this would be a blessing, the holy of holies.
She says that if she were nailed to cross, it would give her no room to sin. She is suspicious of happiness and watches it warily from a corner. She writes:
"While reading a Psalm I realized that sometimes the pit you need to be rescued from is beautiful and lined with flowers." There is nothing more beautiful to her than suffering.
And she called me the martyr.
She says that if she were nailed to cross, it would give her no room to sin. She is suspicious of happiness and watches it warily from a corner. She writes:
"While reading a Psalm I realized that sometimes the pit you need to be rescued from is beautiful and lined with flowers." There is nothing more beautiful to her than suffering.
And she called me the martyr.