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We were all captivated by him, starved for beauty, greedy for drama, attracted to power like a moth to the flame. We were all hungry to burn.
I can’t tell if it’s a good idea though. Am I the lighthouse standing against the raging storm? Or the single dandelion trying to face a tornado?
The trouble with always fending for myself means I’ve never had to shoulder the responsibility of anyone else, and I’m finding I don’t like it. The feeling chafes.
Nothing is ever good enough. Perpetually dissatisfied. My mom always said as much. “Like you’re always chasing a drug,” she would say, “but you don’t know what the drug is.”
It’s just…every breath he exhales around me feels like a storm rolling in, like I’m the ocean, and he’s the thundercloud churning my insides. I can’t fight it any more than the ocean can fight the storm. This isn’t good. Not good at all.
it’s like he’s claiming me as his, claiming me as his divine retribution.
“Anything can change in an instant,” she said. “Everything and anything. And nothing can make you feel so small, the universe so big, as sudden change.”
