I’m half alive but I feel mostly dead.
How abusive my boyfriend is to me.” Regret backhands me so fast it feels like I just hit a car head on.
This girl. She’s life. She pumped my heart when I didn’t think it could keep beating. She filled my lungs when I thought I’d taken my last breath. She crawled up my face and showed me I still had a smile.
I try to swallow back emotion as he catches my tear with his thumb. “You’re not going to stop until you’ve claimed every single piece of my heart, are you?” I whisper. He ghosts his fingers along my jaw, tilting his head to the side with a gripping intensity to his eyes. “I’m not going to stop until I feel your soul take my last breath.” I think his just took mine.
Being an example of a strong woman is the best way to love your daughter.
What am I apologizing for? Being nice? Too generous? I should be apologizing for having the spine of a gummy bear and letting yet another man step all over me and my generosity.
I think it’s a misconception that every human needs to have a significant other to be happy.
Death should steal a tiny piece of happiness from the living for approximately eternity. It means that person’s life meant something to someone. I wonder if I will steal a piece of anyone’s happiness when I die?
Luke’s never looked at me as broken, even though I am. He’s just loved all my pieces – even the ones that have made him bleed.
It’s easy to give thanks and praise for blessings. It’s easy to feel loved when life bestows happiness upon us. But blind faith in the face of such tragedy is a jagged pill that not everyone can swallow.
He erases every trace that another man held me – kissed me. It’s not right and it’s not wrong. It simply is. It’s Griffin and Swayze.
It’s intimate, but not sexual. It’s familiar, but new. It’s food to my soul – her soul.
In just over two months, a stranger and his daughter crawled into our lives and left a permanent mark on all of us. We made each other smile, laugh, and cry. We shared good food, endless days of playing on the beach, and drinking lemonade on the deck at sunset.
I don’t mind being me. No one else can do it better.
Cruciverbalist. A person who is skilled at constructing or solving crossword puzzles.
I know they say love is patient, but it’s not. Love is the brightest star in the sky. It doesn’t have an off switch or a timer. It doesn’t wear a watch or look at a calendar. It’s why we’re here. It’s the only true reason for our existence.
Yes, Fisher. You’re my cruciverbalist soul mate, you stubborn ass with a broken brain.
I think there are some things that are meant to provide a lifetime of awe. The mountains. The oceans. Rainbows. Shooting stars. First kisses.
Loving you is my favorite thing to do. It’s automatic and effortless.
Because all I wanted was to live a day at a time and figure things out one moment at a time. That’s all I wanted to do. And all I wanted to be was yours.
Labels shouldn’t matter. Deep down, I know this. But sometimes a label feels like validation. Validation of one’s feelings. Validation of one’s intentions.