Sometimes I write.

I want to share the things I like with someone who understands.

You’re so good at forgiving everyone but yourself.

All I want to do is to crawl into your arms and forget about all the hurt.

Sometimes I get drunk and pretend that you’re here next to me. How pathetic.

I have missed you more than I have loved you.

I wanted to believe you so bad, that I fooled myself into thinking you were good for me.

My honest act of love was waiting, and your greatest act of violence was silence.

In an attempt to protect my peace, I failed to grow.

I am the only one pressuring me. So why can’t I just shake it off?

I refuse to let my past haunts you.

I’ll spend my whole life waiting if that is what it takes to be loved by you.

I stop talking because I don’t think anyone will understand.

I wanted a life with you, although it might have been nothing but wishful thinking.

Perhaps it’s less haunting to have loved and lost than to have never tried at all.

I held my tongue even when you made a fool out of me.

You love me in a way that makes me question if I’ve ever truly been loved before.