She was broken and she didn’t know how to fix herself.

Therapy was too expensive.

Wine much less so.

She didn’t want to stop and deal with feelings she couldn’t name.

No. She wanted to lose herself- in the stars, in his arms, in the rays of sunshine beating down her back in these las few, hot summer days; in time and space; She wanted to feel what really mattered, and not only what weighed her down.

Was she the only one feeling pressured to be someone else to the world?

She wanted to be who he needed. But inside, she couldn’t shake this crippling fear that maybe who she was, then and there, just wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a lack of confidence; Maybe she was just too intense, her currents too strong. As they said in her native tongue: “Too much sand for his little truck.”

And she had baggage. But he wouldn’t know. She always left it right outside his door, and he never bothered to ask.

Dressed in white with bloodshot eyes, she climbed in bed, contorting her body around her sheets until she blended with them, looking pure and serene. She laid still, moving only her lungs as she gasped for air, spilling tears until there were none left to give, no sobs, no feelings she didn’t name or expressed; Until he made her laugh; Until he made her feel like the best thing since sliced bread.


She really needed that.

Because she was broken.

And sometimes it got tiring to always play pretend around him. To always play pretend to the world.

She just didn’t know who to be. How to act. But she also didn’t know how to be anyone else but herself.

Her broken self. Shattered in pieces, laying there, held together by French lace and his old, familiar voice.

“You’re the best person I have ever known. You are so strong.”

If only she could be what he saw. Not this mess. Not so broken and bare.

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