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“Soulmates aren’t the ones who make you happiest, no. They’re instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope.” ― Victoria Erickson
A broken heart created a broken woman. A broken woman created a broken family. Love broke us. Love obliterated my life before it ever really started.
If we did anything about it, then it became something that happened to me, and I was so sick of being that girl. I’d already had enough happen to me in my life that was out of my control.
If I didn’t think them, then they weren’t true. If I didn’t think them, then the twist in my stomach when I heard them meant nothing.
“You’re a dominant personality who wants the chance to be submissive.”
You take care of everyone, but no one takes care of you, and you’re afraid to admit you want that. You at least want the option to give up all control, but you don’t trust anyone enough to let go in any substantial ways.”
“You say I’m in my head all the time, but it’s you,” he croaked. “You are in my fucking head all day long.”
your body is more honest about how you feel about me than any other part of you. Your body doesn’t overthink. It just trusts me.”
‘trust’ wasn’t just a word. It was a trick.
Trust was a ruse that, no matter which way you dressed it, always—always—ended in disappointment. Trust meant something sturdy and certain, but the end result was always something broken. It may take days or it may take years, but trust was the least trustworthy bitch out there.
