I was on the cold tile of our bathroom floor, the sharp stucco of the white walls digging into my bony back. I held my vintage wedding veil from the 50s in my hand, wondering if the bride who wore it before was happy, was still married.
You knelt down by me, my body instantly moving closer to wall. As I scooted as close as I could get the only stability I could find in our damaged apartment, I felt a sting in my wrist and adjusted the tight custom cast around it.
You moved your face right up to mine until everything was out of focus except your murky muddy eyes. Goosebumps formed on more parts of my body the closer you got to me. You put your chapped hand on mine, my fingers curling away from yours. You told me maybe I was not meant to be married, even thought it was something I craved. Maybe I wasn't meant to have children and live the life of my fantasies that I had told you about.
Maybe I just wasn't meant to love.
But maybe, just maybe, wild hearts aren't meant to be tamed, no matter how hard you beat them. Even when you try to subdue them to the point that they are bleeding on the floor of a bathroom, they will pick their bloody selves up and walk out that door.