whenever I meet someone new, I inevitably check their limbs for scars.

they are almost always there, some solitary little wisps, some like a cross-hatching, a pattern, a score...

...and I find that the stories written there are irresistible, and the wounds run deeper than I can kiss.

I always fall for the broken ones, whose scars travel further than I've ever been.

I dreamed of going to a ball once, all in red and gold--like Settareh from the old tales.

Only, I had no pari to help me.

My veil was secondhand, my gown plain, and my anklets of paste and plating instead of diamonds and gold.

But there was this boy, you see.

Not a prince, not the captain of a ship or a faerie lord, not a warrior, a healer or a mage...just a boy.

And I had the barest will-o’-the-wisp’s hope that he would dance with me.

I miss Chicago.

I miss walking everywhere with my best friend.

I wish I had been brave enough to take his hand on those walks.

I miss walking with my puppy to go meet him after class.

I miss the adventures we had, and planning more adventures with him.

I miss splitting pastries and snacks and meals with him.

I miss joking with him, laughing with him, playing videogames with him.

I miss the silly little nudging game we used to play on the couch, on the train, on the bus.

I miss when our stop was near and he would turn back and offer his hand so I wouldn't fall...and he would lead me to the door before letting go.

I remember the first time he held me...I thought I would lose my mind, I thought I would cry, I thought I would die.

When I close my eyes, I can still feel how his hands felt, intertwined with mine.

I miss laying in bed with him, listening to his heartbeat and just breathing him in, his arms around me.

I remember the time he fell asleep, his arms around me, his hands in my hair, his face so close to mine.

I should have kissed him then. Instead, I confessed when he woke...and he listened to me and let me cry for what couldn't be.

I miss when he would take my face in his hands and tell me everything would be alright.

He doesn't love me. Not like that. But dear god I felt loved, oh so loved, those two weeks.

You pray so badly for heaven
Knowing any day might be the day that you die
But maybe life on earth could be heaven
Doesn't just the thought of it make it worth a try

where are the songs about
the wrong girl,
the not-quite-right girl,
the in-between girl?

we exist.

we tell ourselves that we are
no one's one-night-stand,
no one's rebound,
no one's flavor-of-the-week,

but
we would give anything to be
someone's last dance,
someone's first choice,
someone's only hope.

is there so much that is "wrong" with us?

we are flawed.
we are vulnerable,
we are lonely,
we are cynical and shy...

but
we are also proud,
we are strong,
we are fearless and exquisite,

and we are worth more than “happily-ever-after.”