Sometimes I stare at my bedside table, the one with your initials engraved into the hard framework. Made with your hands, with your love. A love that no longer exists, that no longer gasps for a breath like I have grown accustomed to.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Mending A Broken Heart
Short StoryI don't think it's about finding myself as much as it is about remaking myself. I had been this girl for awhile, and then I started changing. Heading in a new direction blindfolded. I think it's time to take the blindfold off and create myself with...
