She Is Well Practiced In The Art

I Think He Came To Die With Me," I Say. I Clamp My Hand Over My Mouth To Stifle A Sob. If I Can Keep Breathing, I Can Stop Crying. I Didn't Need Or Want Him To Die With Me. I Wanted To Keep Him Safe. What An Idiot, I Think, But My Heart Isn't In It. "that's Ridiculous," He Says. "that Doesn't Make Any Sense. He's Eighteen; He'll Find Another Girlfriend Once You're Dead. And He's Stupid If He Doesn't Know That." Tears Run Down My Cheeks, Hot At First And Then Cold. I Close My Eyes. "if You Think That's What It's About..." I Swallow Another Sob. "...you're The Stupid One.

I Imagine The Wave Of Water Colliding With The Rock And Spilling Over The Tile Floor, Collecting Around My Shoes. Doing A Little At Once Can Fix Something, Eventually, But I Feel Like When You Believe That Something Is Truly A Problem, You Throw Everything You Have At It, Because You Just Can’t Help Yourself.

I Wonder If This Is How Is Is With All Evil Men, That To Someone, They Look Just Like Good Men, Talk Like Good Men, Are Just As Likable As Good Men.

Looks Like Someone Had A Mood Swing.” She Rolls Her Eyes. “like You Don’t Want To Know What His Fears Are. He Acts So Tough That He’s Probably Afraid Of Marshmallows And Really Bright Sunrises Or Something.

It Will Be Difficult To Break The Habits Of Thinking Abnegation Instilled In Me, Like Tugging A Single Thread From A Complex Work Of Embroidery. But I Will Find New Habits, New Thoughts, New Rules. I Will Become Something Else.