He is nothing to look at, and yet I can’t stop looking at him. There is something beautiful in how his face is made, how all the tiny flaws blend together into something more perfect than perfection could ever be.

It's bullshit. It's so easy to label people, to look at a list of symptoms and say, "This is who you are. This is what you are.

And yet here I am. Broken and bleeding on the inside, heartsick, I am here.

Look at me. We aren´t them lauren. You´re not your mother or father any more than I´m my mother. You´re you and I´m me and I love you.

I felt nothing all the time, and it had started to feel normal. It should have scared me, but it didn't.

You know who you are you just have to believe it.

Hope was supposed to be a good thing, but it was starting to feel like every other four-letter word you're not supposed to say.