Heart Bones

by Colleen Hoover

Seeing the ocean in person feels almost as important as having food and shelter.

It’s like years of therapy, rolled up into a view.

Being as skinny as I am isn’t something I strive for. It’s been a constant battle trying to consume enough calories

“Wow. You could probably even go down a size.” I shake my head. “No, I plan on gaining weight this summer.” “Why? I’d kill to have a body like yours.” I hate that comment. She’s staring at me in a pouty way. It makes me think she’s internally comparing our bodies, pointing out things about herself she deems as flaws.

Why do people judge other people based on how tightly their skin clings to their bones?”

The only thing I hate more than a douche is a racist douche.

Ocean therapy has worked wonders for me so far and it’s free.

I just want to be with my dog right now. I’m tired of answering questions, and P.J. will be the first living thing I’ve encountered in the last few hours that hasn’t thrown questions at me.

My father once told me love is a lot like water. It can be calm. Raging. Threatening. Soothing. Water will be many things, but even in all its forms, it will always be water. You are my water. I think I might be yours, too.

I even release my anger toward my mother.

I no longer want to be the version of myself who judged people before accepting them.

I think enough time has passed that my heart bone has healed. There’s still a crack in it. I sometimes feel it aching. Mostly when it’s late at night and I’m unable to sleep.