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His name stamped onto me like a tattoo.
Silence didn’t start arguments. Silence left no room for vocal judgement.
In a world short of love, I had to be wanted. I was wanted. I felt wanted. Never loved, no. But I was wanted.
Her name was Beatrice Louise Henderson.
Maybe I fell in love with the potential of people, not who they really were.
He thinks I’m pretty. He thinks I’m pretty. He thinks I’m pretty.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you,” she said, her eyes sincerely apologetic.
Sometimes two people, completely opposite and far apart were tied by an invisible chord. No one could see it but the people inside the knot.
Pain became happiness. Happiness became pain. Pain became comfort, and that comfort was bliss.
sleeve. You value love over everything, even in the absence of it.”
“Good enough to fuck,” I stated. “Not good enough to love,” I accepted.
