I was born with a bad pancreas, and I could have been born with something a lot worse. I wasn’t particularly lucky, but I wasn’t particularly unlucky, either.
Now, listen. I would. Rather. Hug you. Than be with. Anyone else. Just. Hug you. Do you. Want to. Hug me. Back.
My body has decreed that I shall nap, and nothing will stand in my way.
Not a robot, not a freak, not confused. Just a girl.
Sometimes it could be extremely hard to tell it like it was, especially when whoever you were talking to didn’t want to hear how it was.
You don’t get to tell me I’m doing it the wrong way when it’s your damn filing system that’s wrong.
I wonder if this is how everyone is destined to live: hopping from familiar space to familiar space until all the familiar spaces turn into one big blurry memory of nothing in particular.
The woman gives me an unflinching glare. It’s faces like this that have me convinced people really did watch gladiators and public executions for fun.
I prefer what happens before the kiss: the accidental brush of a shoulder, the spark of a stolen glance, the seemingly throwaway comment that is steeped in history and means so much more.