#nice .. thanks

He’s so difficult to read, sometimes.

Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe she couldn’t say that. He touched her often, whether it was in the form of tight kisses to her temple or the motion of playing with her hair. He was affectionate enough. He was everything. He cared for her, indulged her, listened to her.

Her vision blurs, angry tears stinging dark, bloodshot eyes. It was her fault for drinking. Her fault for losing it a little bit, frightened at the anxiety-induced belief that he may not take her seriously. Ben may not see.

See what? Her head begins to throb, the scent of rosewater and honey straining to fill clogged nostrils. See what? How much I love him. He doesn’t take me seriously. He doesn’t take me seriously. Her hands lift, burying a stubborn, tear-stained face in the palms. I’m not good for this. I’m not good for him, I’m fucked up, I’m fucked up. 

Madonna doesn’t know what she’s afraid of.