Jenni Howell

Sorry has never fixed anything. It just bares the wound; it doesn’t bind it.

I could be so many people, that maybe, just maybe, I could actually find myself.

I’m so tired of always, always being on the outside—and here, in the room that looks like art, it stings more than it ever did down in town. I know that I could stand shoulder to shoulder with them if I’d been taught the same things, the same way. It isn’t me who’s failing here, it’s my past.