It is time to let go the pain and fly. It’s time to surrender the hurt. Time to show the world what love looks like. Let words flow from you like the nimble dance of the tiniest ballerina. Words of kindness and compassion. It’s time.

I've come to terms that words can not heal me. Not alone. Actions must proceed these sweet nothings. Love must fill the empty spots of broken promises. For with out backing these words are nothing and will forever remain nothing.

For the first time in a long time I cried over spilt milk. I wept over the little things. But the thing is that these little things combine with others and that becomes your life. And it seems that the little things hurt the most and the pain that seems to be perpetually hovering ready to spring up is the cycle that I'm doomed in for eternity.

You ask me to touch you and I do. We trace every curve of each other's body, but when we are done you tell me that it shouldn't happen again. You say you love me and I love you, but every time you deny what we've done you break a little part of me.

Empty... maybe we all are meant to feel like a jar of jam. The good kind. The kind that everybody takes from until it's empty. Till there is no more to give.

And this brokenness looked so familiar. The same one that toyed with me all those years ago. It had grown, just as I've grown. It did not look like a puddle anymore, but a giant abyss. This brokenness must have evolved for it had a face and it smiled as to welcome me home. Is this my home?

And the immense sadness sits upon my chest like a pinned reminder of where I've been. It eats up my body like it's that's all there ever is. Maybe that's all that's ever been.