I may love you, but that doesn't give you the right to steal my bed sheet. That sheet is my only security for the times at 3 a.m. when I start to cry in my sleep. And the last thing I want to do is wake you with my useless crying from the mental illness that keeps coming back to haunt me in my dreams.
YOU ARE READING
The Story of Us
PoetryThis is a story that holds more truth than fiction, written in verse and short stories.
