I ached once, hard, like a period typed at the end of a sentence.
There are no really new stories anymore.
She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
I've suffered betrayal with all five senses. For over a year.
I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.
People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips.