I Point At A Window To My

Then I Realize What It Is. It's Him. Something About Him Makes Me Feel Like I Am About To Fall. Or Turn To Liquid. Or Burst Into Flames.

His Hands Skim My Bare Arms. “just Bounce A Little When You Walk,” He Says, Kissing My Forehead, “and Pretend You’re Afraid Of Their Guns” —another Kiss Between My Eyebrows— “and Act Like The Shrinking Violet You Could Never Be ”—a Kiss On My Cheek— “and You’ll Be Fine.

It Seems Like The Rebellions Never Stop, In The City, In The Compound, Anywhere. There Are Just Breaths Between Them, And Foolishly, We Call Those Breaths “peace".

I Love Tris The Divergent, Who Makes Decisions Apart From Faction Loyalty, Who Isn’t Some Faction Archetype. But The Tris Who’s Trying As Hard As She Can To Destroy Herself … I Can’t Love Her.

I Look Older. Maybe It's The Short Hair Or Maybe It's Just That I Wear All That Has Happened Like A Mask. Either Way, I Always Thought I Would Be Happy When I Stopped Looking Like A Child. But All I Feel Is A Lump In My Throat. I Am No Longer The Daughter My Parents Knew. They Will Never Know Me As I Am Now.