We’re all made of stories.
The kind where prologues take roots in the empty basements of hearts.
My story with her started when I tried to redeem myself for hurting you. Continue reading
We’re all made of stories.
The kind where prologues take roots in the empty basements of hearts.
My story with her started when I tried to redeem myself for hurting you. Continue reading
Let’s just say I found someone. Let’s just say they’re not you—let’s say they’re someone new.
I’ve had this low hum live inside my chest for the past month that’s slowly been inching up towards my throat. Sometimes it feels like a tremble, other times it’s a rumble—and, on rare occasions, it’s like a rabid beast trying to throttle its cage. Continue reading
I often find myself writing about two things: you and God.
I find there is comfort in threes—for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
I have also found how hard it is to scrub away traces of you from my prayers. Continue reading