I wonder if they knew, really knew what you were thinking when you smiled for the camera or walked into a room wearing your Chanel No. 5 and revealing dress:

Your self-loathing thoughts of worthlessness.

The man you wished would leave his wife to swoop you into his arms.

How much your scalp burned from the bleaching the day before.

The production company not believing you’re serious about your craft.

The half-empty bottle of pills in your clutch.

How much you wanted to have a child to love like your mother never loved you.

No one really knew, but I wish they had. Maybe you wouldn’t have been my tragic heroine.

Comforting

Harleen closed her eyes to the darkness as Pamela stroked her chapped lips. She’d been feeling under the weather the past couple of days, but never sick enough to ignore Pam’s gentle touches and kisses.

She reopened her eyes to see the moon’s light sneaking into their bedroom through the hastily closed blinds. Pam’s red hair seemed to sparkle at night, and her green eyes always seemed to glow.

This was love, she’d been told. Easiness. Quietness. Softness.

Not brutality. Not pain. Not sadistic hilarity.

Harleen blinked and tried to focus on the invisible patterns Pamela traced with her fingertips.

This Picture sums up my outlook these days...