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I don’t want to be loved like a shelved book, treated with painstaking, delicate care, kept pretty and pristine like a shiny trophy. I want to be used and devoured, kept near at all times, read over and over again until everything that’s in me is memorized and consumed, the pages are bent and worn with memories, and the marks he left on me can’t be erased.
That is love. It isn’t perfect. It’s finding a way to be imperfect together.