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Peace. The word felt foreign on my tongue.
“Shit, fuck. I didn’t think. I’m sorry, Starling. Apparently, my big dick comes with a big mouth. A sort of buy-one-get-one-free deal.”
“Did you forget the part where I said she was my son’s girlfriend?” “No, but you’re acting like I should care. I don’t. If you want her, then take her.”
People talk about mending bridges. But the truth is, when those bridges have been burned, there’s nothing left to fix. All you have is a handful of ashes and a pocketful of regrets.
So my little birdie has sharp claws, after all.
She fists her hands at her sides, showing me that spark of fire behind her eyes once more. “This is just the skin I was born in. It’s nothing special, just the cover of my story that nobody ever bothers to look beyond because they’re all too happy to show me off.”
Everyone I’ve ever met has treated me like I didn’t matter.
We’re a match made in hell. There’s no version of us that works. We’re destined to destroy each other.” “But what a beautiful way to burn.”
But nobody could mend my heart. Nobody could restore my innocence or stop the flow from the knife in my back.
Sometimes you need to allow yourself to break, to let yourself be weak when there’s no one around to see you fall apart and use your pain against you. Nobody tells you how hard it is to be strong all the time or how mentally exhausting it is to just be okay.
So, I let myself cry. I let myself fall to pieces. I give myself grace because life is hard, and I’m just trying to survive it.
Borrowing a heart hurts so much more than stealing one, because eventually, you have to give it back.
She has no fucking idea that in her weakest moment, she surrenders with the grace of a warrior.
“What’s happening?” I look at the little white chapel and smile. “We’re going to a wedding.” “Who’s getting married?” “We are.”
Once again, I’m owned by a man that wants to use me.
I will never accept what happened to me, and I’ll never forgive those who hurt me. That means I’m forever stuck in my guilty era, asking questions like, was it my fault? Did I do something to deserve this? Did I say too much or not enough? Could I have fought harder, screamed—
“I don’t know your story, but mine’s full of monsters.”
But I don’t think about them. I think about myself. I think about the little girl who had so much potential. I miss her. I grieve for her as if she died because, in a way, she did. I think about her a lot. Grief’s like that, you know? It sticks with you, gnaws at you. I haven't accepted it and probably never will. But I'm learning to live with it.”
“Yes. Because I know monsters are real. I’m scared every day, but I don’t hide under the bed anymore. I remind myself that despite everything that happened to me, I’m still here. I survived because I never stopped holding on.”
“I’ve danced with monsters my whole life. I’ve been dressed up and stripped bare, shown off like some shiny trophy, and hidden away like a dirty little secret.”
“I’m the one who’s always alone in the middle of a crowd. I’m watched and judged and found not good enough. And yet, I’m exactly what they made me.
She’s already proven she knows how to dance with monsters and survive.
I fought monsters and won. My demons don’t stand a chance against me anymore.
