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I’ve wondered if I worked hard enough at my bruised and broken bits, if I could be shiny again, too. I’ve wondered if anyone might ever see me as something precious.
It’s a skill I perfected while growing up in a cold house with cold parents. Sometimes it’s best to make yourself as small as possible so you can go unnoticed.
can hear the way his scruff scrapes against his skin. It’s a middle-of-the-night sound, paired best with rustling sheets and bedroom whispers. Wind at the windows and hands tracing over sleep-warm skin.
stood my ground and followed through and nothing bad happened.
“That was the demonstration.” “Still,” I insist, getting a buzz from teasing him through the door. Is this what it feels like to hold your ground?
