I will look at myself in the bathroom mirror and marvel at the fact that somehow I made it here. If you had asked me 12, or even 10 years ago, I certainly wouldn’t have thought I would.
I made the biggest mistake of my life. I chose my career over him. He couldn’t even forgive me—that’s when he cheated on me with another girl.
“We could just be friends.” That tells you everything. Everything you could possibly need to know. Everything you saw coming. Everything you want to be wrong; some kind of mistake.
I hate that you live in me now. I hate that I see you when I look at my reflection and wonder what you have that I don’t.
The world owes you nothing.
I don’t blame it entirely on him or me but I blame it on my age. I felt like my life was ruined.
Just because I am genuinely interested in who you are as a person, it doesn’t mean I want to hook up with you.
I know I’m not alone in this process. I know a lot of you reading this have done the same thing. You might even be doing it right now.
It’s a daily struggle. Sometimes I look at myself and think I’m not sick enough.
There’s nothing left inside of me for you. If you cut a small hole somewhere between my ribs and peeked inside you’d see an empty chamber. You’d see right through me to a xylophone of vertebrae.