After all, my sometimes-difficult-to-deal-with hair is mine.
Pieces of us are left there and there,
places we shared when we meant nothing to one another.
We were like two ships in the night, passing through and biding time,
waiting until we were both ready to stand still at a crossing.
He stands on line at the liquor store, allowing the dreadful monotony wash over him like a startlingly bout of nausea.
It was never about timing.
It was crying in the car as the sun descended in the sky,
and peering at my red eyes in the bathroom mirror.
But now and then, I like to remind myself – I need to remind myself – that I am durable. That I’m not unsafe inside my skin.
We breathe in nights that smell like burning firewood and chase days when the sun hangs high. Apple orchards and pumpkin patches bustle with crowds. Autumn sweets and spices play on our tongues.
His hand is intertwined with her hand. In such a sweet way. In a way that says, look at us, we are together.
I found my bugs bunny doll the other day. I could have gotten rid of it years ago. After all, it’s been years since I played with it. It’s been years since it rested on the pillow beside me. But why didn’t I?
I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry, even though I’ve already said it so many times. I’m sorry that I tend to self-sabotage when I’m too afraid of trusting my own happiness.
A broken engagement. A punch to the gut in 30 seconds. Loss rearing its head. She wonders when the past will let her go.