I sit silent and rigid, and somehow I’m still breathing despite this burning pain inside of me. It’s searing through my veins, and I don’t know how I’m still standing upright, but I am.

I suppose there’s a reason, a small one, that I don’t like to talk about my past, but maybe I’ve had just enough wine to do so. The things that matter to me will never matter to you, may not seem that little or big to you, but I do not care. They’re mine, and I’m telling you anyway.

I haven’t loved many men, but I have loved a few interesting ones. Each one is different and unique in their own right, and I understand how cliché that must sound, but in this case, it is very true. I don’t call them chapters in my life, I call them short stories or novellas, each of them a part of the compilation that makes up the unique anthology that is my life.