I used to be pretty. My skin once pitted deep around my collarbones as if my skin were being pulled so taut, the bone nearly burst through it.
He said: “I’m not going to pretend there aren’t times when I won’t go down on you for the sheer fact that I fear being smothered by the cellulite of your thighs.”
He said if I wanted to be told I was pretty I should be with a man that says yes more than he says no.
He said: “I’m not for the weak of heart.”
But he overlooked the fact that it’s my ego that’s weak.
So I punch at my thighs until I’m certain they’ll bruise. And when I wake up in the morning with legs blotched purple - I will remember what stands in my way of reaching the realm of perfection.
He said: “Love means I don’t have to be careful with my words. Means I don’t have to withhold what I want to say.”

And I believed him.