we had it all, we were young

and i just ran out of band aids, i don’t really know where to start. cause you can bandage the damage, but you never really can fix a heart. 

write hard about what hurts because writers tell the truth, and if we hide behind our wall of lies because it’s easier, then what hope is left? 

write hard about what hurts because what hurts is real life: and it’s full of bittersweet moments, senseless poetry, meaningless words and echoing memories. 

write hard about your self to learn what blinds you from the truths that you see, but choose not to. write hard about what hurts because these stories can and should be told in six words: no embellishments. 

i went in a child and came out impotent. operation for two that left me alone in a sense that i will never have again. i chose solitude and got callous with my heart, with my body, with my soul. i left and i cried and i broke, and i’m broken in ways he can never heal again, not even if i allowed him to. 

write hard about what hurts because someday it won’t anymore. 

and maybe the hardest truths you refuse to hear are the ones that can save you from the monster within; the monster you’re becoming, and i’m terrified of being lonely, terrified of being alone, but comfort shouldn’t be the basis for a relationship and i don’t know what love is anymore. i don’t know who i am anymore, and i’m scared, and confused and tired. 

i lived for sparks because i grew up on a diet of brontë and austen and bloom. 
i believed the world when they told me the sort of girl you should be so that guys would fall effortlessly, and so i did what i was told to do and played the games i was taught to play and fell head over myself, tumbling so far down the rabbit hole, i’m not sure i can ever get out again.

studies show that men never settle for anyone other than their perfect 10. 
women, on the other hand, believe they can mould their other half to become this perfect 10.
this is why women are often more dissatisfied than men. 

we can’t pull the plug as easily as they can. but how can you look for a perfect 10 when you’re so broken yourself? 
we accept the kind of love we believe we deserve. this was a truth i once knew but had forgotten. 

write hard about what hurts: i need to love myself first before i can love anyone else, and right now, i need to be a child. to each season, there is a reason. i’m not ready to be an adult, but to run away and play pretend is more childish than to admit that i’m nothing but a baby. 

i need to learn how to crawl again.


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