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You can’t ever count on a man, but you can always count on the poison that will kill him…or whatever that saying is.
“you have to be how you’d like to be perceived.”
That’s the thing about grief, I guess. It steals the air from your lungs just as you’ve finally figured out how to breathe.
Weak men always let their dicks do the thinking, and strong women know how to take advantage of that.
“In a different life…” I pause, emotion suddenly clogging my throat. “I’d love you out loud.”
“You said I am who I am because of you,” I whisper, pressing my nails into the insides of my hands until red drips down my fingers. I step forward, my heart pulsing with rage and vengeance until its inky poison pumps through my veins like blood. “Just wait until you see who I become in spite of you.”
“Control is quiet. It’s masterful. It doesn’t need to make a show or take up space because it is the space, and it allows everyone to exist within it.
She’s dirty and depraved, and so fucking mine.
Even if I wanted to complain, I don’t think my vagina would let me.
