Heart Bones

by Colleen Hoover

I think when you’re the worst of people, finding the worst in others becomes a survival tactic of sorts. You focus heavily on the darkness in people in hopes of masking the true shade of your own darkness.

I wonder what kind of upbringing is worse for a human. The kind where you’re sheltered and loved to the point that you aren’t aware of how cruel the world can be until it’s too late to acquire the necessary coping skills, or the kind of household I grew up in. The ugliest version of a family, where coping is the only thing you learn.

I wonder how many six-year-olds have to teach themselves how to work a stove because they believe if they don’t, they’ll be eaten alive by their internal ravenous cat.

I hear people talk about good men, but I’m starting to think that’s a myth.

Sometimes I believe personalities are shaped more by damage than kindness. Kindness doesn’t sink as deep into your skin as the damage does. The damage stains your soul so bad, you can’t scrub it off. It stays there forever, and I feel like people can see all my damage just by looking at me.

I could count the kindness shown to me on both hands. I couldn’t count the damage done to me even if I used the hands of every person in this airport.

Home still feels like a mythical place I’ve been searching for my whole life.

“Because most of the time, the fun you have that leads to the pain is worth the pain.”

“People sometimes still drown in the shallow end,” he whispers.

“Don’t worry. Hearts don’t have bones. They can’t actually break.”

I’m going to smile so much that my fake smile eventually becomes real.