Imagine a guy. He’s a little taller than you, with perfect skin, skin that just screams “touch me!” and dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes and he looks so sweet and he is sweet. And then have him blush a little.

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.

I want to care, but I don’t. I look at you and all I feel is tired.

I'll always remember taking your hand and telling you that everything would be okay.

The story of my life can be told in silver: in chocolate mills, serving spoons, and services for twelve. The story of my life has nothing to do with me. The story of my life is things. Things that aren’t mine, that won’t ever be mine. It’s all I’ve ever known. I wish it wasn’t.

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

Three life lessons: 1.No one will see you. 2.No one will say anything. 3.No one will save you.