I reached out my hand, reluctantly. I knew it was scorching hot, but I thought maybe this ONE time would be different. Maybe the stove wouldn't hurt me. THIS time would be perfect; it would feel nice. So with every second, my hand moved an inch closer. But when I touched it, it
was hot. I didn't care: I would adjust. It would cool down. But I was forced to jerk my hand away because it DIDN'T cool down. Stoves were always going to be hot. I don't know why I thought it was going to be different this time.
I'd always
Get
Burned.
Hello dear Livabug, I found you through a friend's blog. I have to say that your writing speaks wonders; it is so honest and heartfelt, and the way you compare love to a stove in this post is really noteworthy. It's refreshing to meet someone like you. :)
ReplyDelete- NW xx
Thank you SO much! This really means a lot. Likewise, it is refreshing to meet you, as well.
ReplyDeleteThank you! <3
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