The energy and effort you put into the people who seem important, particularly when you're led to believe the fascination is mutual. Then you find out it never was - some people simply like the attention, they feed off being wanted and loved, but only if they aren't expected to give you the same in return.

Two years was too long, I think. It's like I never came back at all.

Strange how silent it can be. Sometimes so silent, all you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears, your heart thumping against your ribcage, like a passenger on a sinking ship, desperate for help that will never come. Hopeless, breathless, left with nothing but the manic, tearful prayers that ring out out to a God who's turned his back on you at long last.

I know I am the one to blame, but that's every hopeless romantic's sob story.

At some point, you get too old to play games like that anymore. With each break, the heart becomes more fragile, your soul becomes a dead body you drag behind you on the way to the cemetery, as Jesus carried the cross.

Slender, bruised, pin pricked, junkie arms are not meant to carry such heavy things.

They're also not meant to wrap around girls that were never yours.

Maybe I was better through the rose-tinted glasses of the past to you.

He is always so rude to me, and I have never done anything cruel to him.