This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
Everyone you trust, everyone you think you can count on, will eventually disappoint you.
Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.
He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.
Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose, either. If we didn't get out hearts stomped on, shattered; if we didn't have to patch and repatch it until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together by who knows what
It's amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me - such bullshit.