Apr 6, 2016
She is the kind of girl who forgives without being asked. Her father who left her and her mother who could have done better and the boy who reached too far up her skirt. She used to punch holes in the wall pretending each one was a different person who’d let her down, but then all she had left were bloody knuckles. So she learned how to wrap her own wounds and planted flowers in the depths of the scars they had left in their wake. And eventually, she learned how to grow.
excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via yourhandwrittenletter)
