Two words that explain my entire life.
**** up.
My parents were not ready, but they ****** up and here came their first born daughter.
Ever since then there has been some reason I am a **** up.
Whether it's because I say something wrong, I do something wrong, I act wrong.
No matter what it is, I will mess it up.
That is not an opinion,  that is fact.
You can give me a good relationship, and i'll lose it.
Give me a brand new gift, i'll break it.
My **** ups are inevitable.
They never end.

Lonely people don't **** themselves just because they're lonely.
Ask me why my mind is twisted and i'll tell you bedtime stories that will haunt you for years.
But then again,  i'm still alive.
Holding on to the hope that maybe someone will care one day.
Maybe loneliness doesn't last forever.
But I can't hold on to 'maybe' forever.
So if my forever is out there, I pray he's hanging on to 'maybe' too.
Because maybe our paths will cross soon, or maybe they alredy have.
Who really knows?
Who really gives a ****?

You can't keep using your broken parts to fix someone else.
At some point they will be dropped into a jar and chucked at a wall.
They will break, and you will fall apart with them.

About three weeks ago I woke up and sat in my room for about 20 min with different things in each hand.
In my left hand I had a bottle of pills and a glass of water next to it.
In my right I had a small piece of glass.
I sat and contemplated which would hurt less.
At the 20 min mark I had almost made up my mind when I heard a light knock on my bedroom door.
I quickly hid the objects and opened the door.
Outside my door on the old sewing machine table, there was a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Just then the young (10yo) neighbor girl poped up and hugged me.
She told me that she made me pancakes because I looked sad the day before and that pancakes always make her feel better when shes sad.
I don't think I've ever been so greatful for a younger child till that day.

I never tell people how I feel.
I bottle it up and act happy and that is my life in its simplest form.
But truely, i'm breaking inside.
My heart is aching because it's starting to feel again.
His voice and his smerk they make little spots of light in the darkest places.
I can't help but fall for a guy I know nothing about because he makes me feel something.
He makes my heart feel alive again and he doesn't even know it.
I don't tell people my feelings.
So here I sit, wanting him more than anything; here I sit quietly in the background hoping he might like me too someday, but knowing it is highly unlikely.

As I was driving home, I watched the lightning.
I couldn't decide if it was heat lightning or actual storm lightning.
My answer came when it started to rain lightly.
And while I watched the lightning, my mind wandered to some dark places.
As I drove I daydreamed of a young girl standing in this weather.
Her clothes were soaked and stuck to her skin as she too watched the lightning.
Her eyes were transfixed on the crazy lines that broke the sky into pieces and the light that shaded each part.
But her mind, it wasn't paying any attention to the beautiful show before her.
Her mind was only thinking of the blade hiding in her pocket.
She reached her hand in the pocket and pulled out the tiny tool.
As soon as it was in her hand she sat on the wet earth beneath her and kept her eyes focused on the illuminated sky.
She didn't need to look down as she took the blade and made a deep cut from elbow to wrist on both arms.
And as soon as the damage was done, she laid back and let rain fill her veins while her blood watered the grass.
It was at this time that I had finally pulled into my driveway.
It was also at this time that I realized, the girl I was daydreaming about was me.
The girl I daydreamed was doing something I had longed to do but couldn't make myself do.
As I got out of my car, I tried erased those thoughts from my head.
Another long week was almost over, and I wasn't yet dead.

I never understood the concept of a broken heart.
I've always questioned why someone would put their life, dreams, and soul into a glass jar and throw it to another person hopeing that the person wouldn't let the jar slip through their finger tips and fall to the cement below. Just the thought of giving myself to another human and hopeing they want to make sure my glass doesn't crack makes me feel woozy. And if the person lets the jar slip from their fingers, if that person doesn't make sure the glass won't crack, you have to deal with your whole world shattering on the **** cement. I've never understood why people do that, until I met him.
He made me believe there was a protective layer around my glass. That even if my glass was thrown across a room as hard as he could throw it, it wouldn't even crack.
So I handed him my jar and he hung it inches above the floor by a string that was fraying in the middle. He swing it back and forth on a knife blade waiting for the string to break. Now, I've never understood the concept of a broken heart, but the day the string finally broke, I felt my whole being shatter on the ground. I felt chunks of myself being broken into little shards and the small pieces went everywhere. I may not understand the concept of a broken heart, but I now know that I never want to.