Tolstoy to Gandhi to Martin Luther King to Me and You

I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

It will never be true. Things have never been okay with us. Maybe if I'd paid attention, I would have seen that on our first few dates. Maybe I would have noticed his possessiveness; maybe I would have seen the way he wrapped around me, made me his entire world, his obsession. Maybe I would have felt the wight he placed on my shoulders, one tiny stone at a time.

It happened in pieces, tiny little turning points. I'll never figure out when it all turned, because it wasn't a single moments. It doesn't matter how many times I look back, how many times I try to figure it out. There is no before and after. Just a year of choices.

People don't change because you want them to. They aren't clay, ready to be molded.

We are stuck-up about love and we are stuck-up in the idea of being in-love.