Happiness. It’s a fragile thing.

The sun warms my face, the smell of jasmine fills my lungs, and I watch my children play. There’s a tightness in my chest, a churning in my belly. I’m light and heavy all at the same time, and as I breath in a deep, shaky breath, I know. I know this feeling. It comes…

A narcissist’s game

I don’t get much writing done lately. Well not anything suitable for a romance novel anyway. There is no romance left in me. There’s too much hate. And sorrow, and rage. Blood boiling rage.