He made December feel like summer. He was not stingy with compliments and talk of future trips (yes, that was plural). He threaded reassurance like stitches in a ragdoll's neck. Instead of arousing my suspicion, I fantasied that he could be my Jack Skeleton. Swimming in denial, his words bobbed beside me: "yeah, if you don't get sick of me yet" and "if you're still talking me." Putting the life vest on me, he created the illusion that I was safe-- I was in control; I have the final say on the longevity of this excursion. In reality, this is seldom as transparent as it appears. His words were coming from a place of hurt and, as to not endure any further pain, he left before I could. He applied the golden rule in the most corrupt way. His expectation was heartbreak, so he beat me to the punch. Treading water alone, I tried to kick the insecurity bubbling to the surface, but it quickly encompassed me. You're altogether sour and tart and I could never be your Sally.Cranberry Tart
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AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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