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when I meet someone I love, I become an octopus and wind my tentacles around their heart, tighter and tighter until they can’t deny they love me just the same.
I don’t know how to explain it. I was fourteen when he said that to her, and those last four words broke something in me.
I learned a very important thing that day: my mom would never try to change for a man, and I wouldn’t, either.
“I realize that finding the perfect person isn’t going to be easy for me because I’m a lot to take,” she says, “but I’m not going to change just so that I’m more datable.”
“But at the end of the day,” she says, and puts her hand outside the open window, letting the wind pass through her fingers, “being myself is enough. I’m enough.”
I used to think I was so together, but now the only thing I feel is a hollow sense of not enough.
