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The more he lifts, the thicker his forearms are getting—and more veiny. They’re always on the table, moving, flexing.
“Look at me, Ez. Look at my face.” He shuts his eyes. “Tell me this much: Who fucked up before me? Who fucked around with you and made you feel like loving you was hard work?”
“Every single day you’re alive takes you further from that shit,” he whispers.
I tell myself that he would like me if he knew me.
"I don’t know you, but…I feel like I can't live without you,”
It’s only awful in the way the world is. We all know how awful it is. People get raped every day, and it’s no big deal. No one ever pays the price except you. And you go on, because you have to go on. That’s the world that we have.
I would feel this clawing, anxious thing when I would watch you.” I have to stop and swallow just remembering that feeling. “I think I missed you,” I rasp, “but I just didn’t know.”
“I love you,” I say. “I’ve got you. You’re mine, and I’ve been waiting for you, so I can wrap you up and never let a damn thing ever hurt you again. Not without going through me first.
