I’m so sick of heroes. So sick of men swooping in and telling me their stories— I don’t care who you saw die or the people you hurt or the people who hurt you. I don’t need your help and I don’t fucking want it. I don’t need a hero, and I most definitely don’t need you, on your high horse; do I look like a damsel in distress? Before my husband was a monster, he was a hero, too. I’m done cleaning up nightmares, done tending old, infected wounds, done drying stubborn eyes. I have my own wounds to lick, my own scars to count. I’m sick of being told I need saving— and I’m sick of saving. Leave me be.

I love you.
Why, though? I don’t have a hard time getting attention, but its empty. It’s always been so empty since I met you.
Lord help me— God in heaven have mercy on the soul of any man to meet my lips after you, because I won’t.
Is it even real?
How many separate times are you planning to break my heart?