Amy.
Four years old.
Walks in. Gabs a snack, and sits in my lap.
I saw the first tear.
I knew that look.
I had seen it in the mirror.
She isn't perfect.
But neither are you.
Why point out something that is obvious in everyone?
At four years old.
She already is doubting herself.

A young girl was reading a book today, about a girl and her dog, and the hardships they went through together.
The young girl then looked up at me and asked, "What does beauty symbolize?"
I sat there and begin to wonder what it actually symbolizes.
I asked her this question:
"If you are reading a book about hardships, why are you thinking of beauty?"
She replied, "Because their relationship is still beautiful."

Older. Sweeter. Mature.
Mine.

It's crazy, I tell you.
One moment you are a faint memory, just a piece of my past.
I can't recall the little things you did for me.
I can't feel the butterflies you once gave me.
Then, at two AM, you grab me by my shirt and and throw me across the room and everything comes back.
The back stabs,
the kisses,
the lies,
the million love letters,
the times you said I was the problem, when really, I had done nothing wrong,
the time you kissed me goodbye, while your great-grandmother lay dead by your side.
All of it comes back. The good, the bad, the ugly.
I try to focus on the good. But, I am having a hard time remembering what was actually genuine.

A dark, old workout room lined with punching bags hanging from the ceiling.
The bags are covered in dust and cracked from dry-rot.
They haven't been used in ages.
Forgotten.