Every Tattoo I Got With Them Is

I Wipe My Face With My Sleeve, Laughing So Hard My Stomach Hurts. If My Entire Life Is Like This, Loud Laughter And Bold Action And The Kind Of Exhaustion You Feel After A Hard But Satisfying Day, I Will Be Content.

He Pulls Me Over The Railing And Against His Chest, Gathering Me Into His Arms, Easing An Arm Under My Knees. I Press My Face Into His Shoulder, And There Is A Sudden, Hollow Silence.

That’s One Way Of Looking At It. I Prefer To Look At It Another Way—which Is That If They Are Persistent Enough, Even Tiny Drops Of Water, Over Time, Can Change The Rock Forever. And It Will Never Change Back.

How Is It I Know This Little About The Boy Who Says He Loves Me -- The Boy Whose Real Name Is Powerful Enough To Keep Us Alive In A Train Car Full Of Enemies?

It's Not Sacrifice If It's Someone Else's Life You're Giving Away, It's Just Evil.