Bisexual female writer and artist from your average small northern California town rich in history and not much else.
Technically an art and retro junk blog but mostly bits of thread and shiny things that caught my attention
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
1945.12: Norma Jeane photographed by Andre de Dienes on a road outside of L.A.
Two other women, also breast cancer survivors, said their husbands left them after they were diagnosed. Both had to have mastectomies (in case anyone doesn’t know, this is the surgical operation to remove one or both breasts).
The first woman said her husband told her that he would rather see her dead than see her lose her breasts. The second woman had her operation and waited all day to be picked up by her husband, who never arrived. By nightfall, one of the nurses offered to give her a ride, and she came home to find the house empty.
Obviously, these are extreme cases of a man’s reaction to his wife’s breast cancer, but this is what I see when I see the “I ♥ Boobies” bracelets. I see love of the body parts, not the person being treated—not the patient, not the victim, not the survivor.