i live for the in between with you. your possessive hand on my hip when we go out. your glances across a crowded room. when you bring me flowers on random tuesdays.
i look forward to the darkness and the quiet. even though i am scared of it, that is the only time i feel something.
we were everything. everything.
hate seeps into my bones quicker than the chill in the air.
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you must’ve been mine for lifetimes. i must’ve taught you how to read, or ride a bike, or cook, or run. we must’ve met on the streets of ancient rome, or in passing jericho, or selling you a car in london, or teaching you to fight in sparta, or closing your tomb in egypt. i must’ve been your person every single lifetime.
i do believe it would have been easier to have you ripped from me. because you’re still here, but i’m watching you undo the threads at a snails pace.
i would much rather stay inside to do my skincare than go out and party all night. why does that make me a villain?
why am i judged for wanting a husband? i don’t want to settle and have ten children, i just want someone who loves every bump, curve, and blemish of me.
i have a feeling that in the next fifty women you undress, all you will be able to see is that they are not, and could never be me.