I've seen too much, and I've lost too many. And too much of me still wants to fix it.
We're all important. All of us. Even if we're not princesses at heart.
I have this theory that in a good marriage, conflict shows up when you forget you know who this other person is.
I desperately want to write but you're going to have to put up with this mélange of nonsense instead.
Memories can be a choice, sometimes.
I've written myself through loneliness, depression, anxiety, anger, fear, frustration for my entire life.
It's friction. Maybe not friction that matters, but friction nonetheless.