I am not sure why I keep on picking roses even though I know they have thorns.

I hold onto matches too long, and kiss too many boys.

Because the truth is I can’t feel anything at all.

They say you’re most alive with a broken heart, but I was never one for irony.

I used to want to tell you everything and now I can only seem to talk about the weather.

I desperately want affection but I flinch at everyone’s attempt to get to know me.

I am scared that I will forget you, but I cut my hair so there was less of me you had touched.