The man I love is not for the faint of heart. He’s an artist, a maniac, a brilliant sculptor capable of molding the most delicate clay into something beautiful and unbreakable. He teases that he makes magic, but it’s not a joke to me. He is a magician. He will break you apart and rebuild you, and only then will you know true freedom. He will give you what you never knew you needed, whether you want him to or not. He will make you his. If you’re me, anyway.