What Is It About Men That Make

I Hold Him To My Chest. My Love For Him Is The Only Unequivocally Good Thing I Know Is Always There Inside Of Me. It Is The Reason I Should Be Spared All That Is Coming, The Only Reason.

What Else Is Life From The Time You Were Born But A Struggle To Matter, At Least To Someone?

The Peculiar Striations That Define Someone's Personality Are Too Numerous To Know, No Matter How Close The Observer. A Person We Think We Know Can Suddenly Become Someone Else When Previously Hidden Strands Of His Character Are Called To The Fore By Circumstance.

It's Like The Smell Of Burned Toast. You Made The Toast. You Looked Forward To It. You Even Enjoyed Making It, But It Burned. What Were You Doing? Was It Your Fault? It Doesn't Matter Anymore. You Open The Window, But Only The Very Top Layer Of The Smell Goes Away. The Rest Remains Around You. It's The Walls. You Leave The Room, But It's On Your Clothes. You Change Your Clothes, But It's In Your Hair. It's On The Thin Skin On The Tops Of Your Hand. And In The Morning, It's Still There.

You Would Love The Way He Sees You. He Uses You As A Weapon Against Himself And Not Merely Because You Did