wanderlust

“How could you do that? Knowing everything about my past. Knowing how I was. How could you? I thought you were better than that. Guess I fooled my self into thinking you were different. Shame on me.”

“Then the men we try to love say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave, and we mourn them too.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m so fucking hard to love and that shit hurts like hell”

I write because I passionately want to speak. Even though writing is only giving me the great measure of silence.

Perhaps, the saddest thing of all, Is that I loved you, and every so often, I thought maybe you could love me too.

“You gave me panic attacks and I thought it was love.”

A kitchen is the best—I mean the saddest—room for tears. A bedroom is too easy, a bathroom too private, a living room too formal. If someone falls to pieces in the kitchen, in the space of work and nourishment, they must be truly coming undone. The bright lights offer no comfort, only illuminate. The floor should be vinyl and cold.

(What we killed was love.)