Dear Tony,

I keep trying to get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper but ——— it’s too hard.  I could never say these things out loud.  Too ———. 

I’m throwing a tantrum and I know it.  Of course I’ll do whatever you ——— ask to ——— help bring you back.  Because that’s what I do/have always done for you, right?  You ask me and I come running.  And I know this is all — so much bigger than me or you and me. 

But dammit, Tony.  When is it my time?  When do I get to stop living to support your life and start living my own?  When does heaven and earth move to help me or to bring my dead husband back ——— from the dead?  Or the flaming wreckage that was my life?  When do man and god alike work to alleviate my pain for once?  When is the movie about me and not Tony ——— Stark? 

I want a sign.  I want some sort of sign that things will get

(Source: greatrhodeybutt, via aubkae)