Holly Riordan

Capricorn: You have a habit of listening to your head over your heart. Even though your body is telling you to go after the person you love, your mind is warning you to back off. It’s listing all of the things that could go wrong. It’s convincing you that you’re better off alone.

How much effort he puts into making you happy.

You don’t reveal your secrets anymore. You get screwed over every time you open up to someone, so you’ve closed yourself off. It’s better that way.

You’re staying up until 2 AM for the wrong reasons. Because you’re wasted. Because you’re heartbroken. Because you’re bored and lonely and scrolling through social media until you’re forced to surrender to sleep.

Before you see him, you shower. Shave. Slip into a skintight dress. Fill in your eyebrows. Paint your lips. And when you meet up with him, he’s wearing the same T-shirt he wore the last time you saw him.

The woman’s whimpering rose to muffled screaming as a gloved hand reached out with the rusted knife. Pushed back her pretty hair, damp at the roots with blood. That hand dug into her ear, slicing off a chunk, taking a golden hoop and an industrial bar along with it. She was still squealing as the hand picked up the skin and flipped it back and forth in front of the phone camera, like he was a magician showing off a card.

Capricorn: There will be books everywhere. Oversized, wooden desks. A floor-standing globe. Maybe even a typewriter.

When she’s drunk. When all of her inhibitions, her insecurities, and her innocence flutters away. When she isn’t thinking over her words — once, twice, three times — before she speaks. When she says whatever pops into her intricate mind and moves with a clumsy grace.

“I get a sharp pain in my leg, as if I’d been stabbed. I look down and there’s nothing there, and absolutely nothing that could have caused it, so I carry on with my work. Next time I look down, there’s a trail of blood going from just above my ankle and trickling down my foot.”

She takes forever to text back. She’s lonely. But when a friend tries to reach out to her, she doesn’t respond. She feels like she has nothing worthwhile to say. Like she’d only bring the other person down. Depress them.

I don’t need you to text me from the second your alarm chimes in the morning until your head sinks into your pillow at night. I don’t need never-ending affection. But I do need affection. I need you to set time aside to visit me and plan out dates you think I’d like. I need you to ask me about my day and tell me all about yours. I need you to prove that you give a damn about me.

I stumbled to the mirror attached to the back of my door. Saw something dripping out of my left ear. Blood? No. No, it wasn’t liquid. It was solid. Like a long, thick worm.

If you have to make a phone call or approach a store counter, you’ll rehearse what you have to say before you actually say it. You’ll repeat the words over and over in your head until you have them memorized. Until you’re ready to take on your role as ‘functional human being.’

During dates. He shouldn’t be staring at his lap, checking his phone, while you’re out having dinner. He should be present. He should be observant. He should be paying attention to you.

At what age did you learn the most about yourself?

He shouldn’t make you cry, because he flirted with another girl. Or because he canceled plans. Or because he called you an offensive name. The only tears you should be crying are happy tears.

Even when I hate what my reflection shows me, I know you’ll still say I’m beautiful. Even when I want to spend the entire day in bed, I know you’ll give me a reason to rise. Even when I feel worthless, I know you’ll only see my value.

“This old Russian lady would relate the same tale over and over. Her husband drank and hit her. It was sad for sure. But one day she leaned over and whispered, ‘He was asshole drunk, so I pushed him down stairs. Dead.'”