You Never Gave Me The Chance To Fall In Love With You
I wanted to love you. I could see who you were, the parts you were afraid to show, and I wanted to hold them even closer.
I wanted to love you. I could see who you were, the parts you were afraid to show, and I wanted to hold them even closer.
I tell you it’s not fair. To any of the parties involved. I will not be the other woman, so you cannot do this.
“Asking for help doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human.”
Because some people, for some reason, stay with us. And maybe that’s okay.
I rush to the local drugstore and head straight to the pharmacist. She says, “Happy Thanksgiving!” And I smile. Awkwardly.
I want to tell him it isn’t fair. He shouldn’t take up all this space reserved for important things like missing my father, or college papers, or anything.
When you fall in love, you do so fully and quickly. You might get there before the other person and that’s terrifying. Waiting. Just hoping they join you on the other side.
Baby, when he calls you a slut, do not bite his tongue. Do not give him the gift of your wet mouth against his.
When she gave us new things to think about post-sex.
Wonder if your blood is like your grandfather’s. Remember the way he was found. Remember the way he showed up to Father’s Day. Remember the vow to not drink until you turned 21. Remember you kept that vow.