"he calls me his pretty lady and it makes me feel like porcelain, reminds me of two a.m dances in my living room beside a single candle that took four tries and one burnt finger to light. when we sleep, he wraps his arms around my hips and holds me as if I am at risk of breaking. I wrap my wrists in his t-shirt and hold the cloth to my face; one night while drunk I admitted it was so I wouldn’t wake up alone. I haven’t yet.
he holds my face when he kisses me, gently and firmly and his eyes catch mine. the movies weren’t kidding about getting tingles in your fingers or butterflies in your stomach because I feel both of these things whenever his lips touch mine.
and maybe love is still a pretty foreign concept to me, because I’ve spent eighteen years of my life listening to my brother cry because she left, comforting my best friends who thought they weren’t enough, piecing together the broken bits of my parents and I may still find glass in my shoes some nights but I am learning how to stop the bleeding. it’s working. I am adapting.
so maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for. and oh god, was it ever worth it."