Truth or Dare

by Dakota Wilde

What she didn’t understand then back when we were at Kingston, is that she’s mine. And always has been, always fucking will be.

If there is a God, I hope she holds their asses accountable for the terror they’ve inflicted upon us.

One wrong response could land me into a grippy sock vacation, and not one I chose. Having already experienced that, I have no desire to repeat being dragged off into the land of no shoelaces and bland as fuck food.

I learned early in my recovery to avoid my triggers at all costs. To shove everything down deep into a box so I could get through the day.

Men with power never cease to amaze me at how they choose to wield it.

The two of us may be broken, but our broken pieces fit perfectly together making a beautiful mosaic of our damaged fragments. I’m not fixed because of him, but he does make me better. And I, in turn, make him better, too. Each pushing the other to be the best version of ourselves, as we accept the other, flaws and all for who we are.

We’re survivors. Not defined by our trauma but thriving in spite of it. And I think there could be no more beautiful a love than that.