Thank you for making me realize that I am capable of one thing: and that is to love. But I can never thank you for breaking my heart.
Ever since you left, I’ve always found myself torn between using past tense and present.
There is a voice living inside my head and it’s making me knock on Death’s door.
I need to remember that I am more than scars.
I look at the endless empty boxes of takeout, or I clean up after purging, or bandage bleeding wounds, but I see this as normal – I’ve never known anything else.