Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

Like I don’t want to test my battered boundaries again, because I’m afraid of the fallout.

It’s like he’s so worried about his words running wild that he only lets them leak out inch by inch:

His voice is even deeper than usual, feeling like midsummer air, heavy and sweet.

But what I can’t stop is the way I feel, the wild and rootless hope that springs to life in me whenever he’s near, no matter how badly we keep fucking this up. I don’t even know what this is. I just know it feels like the start of something good and I want it.

The grossly adoring things I said hover between us, heating my cheeks.

Glittering energy cascades through my blood, and I find myself in the strange position of wanting to share my constant smiles with someone, so I go downstairs to see if Maria is free.

This writing is just so good

He pulls back suddenly. Looks me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.” “Since Saturday?” “Listen to me,” he says. “All weekend.”

That’s always been my struggle, the reason why I’ve never bothered to share my writing: I can’t possibly capture how it feels to be alive. Therefore, everything I write is shit. Or something.

he’s made a rose of my heart: it’s still thorny, but around him it’s also fragrant and lovely and full.

“He took me away,” I say, a truth I haven’t been able to articulate tumbling free. “He took me away from… me.”