“I smirk. There is no weird pillow talk and no pretending we're soft delicate people. No apologies, limits yes, but no shame.”

“Did you make the crawl of shame?"I open one eye and smirk, "What?"She pulls back the covers and plucks my t-shirt, "What is this?"I swallow and stretch and moan a little, "My…" I clear my throat, "Uhm...t-shirt."I make duck lips and watch her. She arches her eyebrow and shakes her head, pointing at my shirt and waggling her finger. "Nuh uh. No. I know all your dirty skeezy little orphan clothes and this shit isn’t yours." She bats her eyelashes blankly, "Spill bitch.”

“He steps forward and kisses my forehead. His breath is soft, devastating warmth on my face. He turns and leaves. He chooses survival over me. It's no different than what I have done. We are both just trying so hard to survive me.”

“He smiles and the world is okay. It feels like it grew a tiny bit. Like I let him into the small corner where I live. He grabs my hand, squeezing it and kisses the top of it, "Now stop trying to scare me off with talks of having kids and area rugs and shit. I'm not going anywhere.”

“They're normal. He's wearing a sweater and a polo and she's got on a blouse. The people who wore sweaters and blouses were the ones you wanted at the orphanage. I always wanted a sweater and a blouse. But they all knew who I was. No one wants that kid. God knows what's already been done to that kid or what they’ll do to the kids already in your house.”

“He clears his throat, "Have you considered he sees you as a girl at school? Not all girls are whole when you meet them. Sometimes you have to help them get there. Right now, you are a broken girl. That doesn’t mean that you'll always be broken. That doesn’t make you less of a girl." He clears his throat again, "I'll call the doc. She'll want to talk to you."The tears in my eyes don’t come out. They stay in there like tiny kaleidoscopes, trying to make the world the way I need it to be. My words don’t come right away either. I don’t hear the click on his end when I whisper, "I'm not broken." But he isn’t there. He never really is. He is the master of not being there.”

“I laugh nervously and jerk my hand free, "I want the you that tilts his head back and eats the snow. I want the you that holds me and snuggles into me. I want him, but you hardly ever show him to me. I see a glimpse of him and then it's you that’s back." I point disappointedly. "I want the sweet guy who puts his hand out for me."His eyes fight something. His lips tighten, "He's in here too. I think there are a few of us.”