life before the monster

How can I explain purposely setting foot on a path so blatantly treacherous? Was the fun in the fall?

Then teach me how to not care about someone who was everything to me. All I want is to know she's okay. Is that too much to ask?

I do have friends, but they don't know me, only someone I've created to take my place. Someone sculpted from ice. I keep the melted me bottled up inside. Where no one can touch her, until, unbidden, she comes pouring out.

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

Every high has an equal, measurable low.

He's solid. "You're fractured." He's hopeful. "You're hopeless." He's always there. "You're half there." He's faithful. "You're so not." He's giving. "You're afraid to give." He's honest. "You lie all the time." He's loving. "You don't know how to love.