There are many different types of fear.
Most fears are selfish.
Like the paralysingly horror of your own death,
The strange ominousness of being alone at night.
We're often afraid of the inflicted on our own emotions and our own bodies.
Sometimes it’s impossible not to be afraid.

But even worse than this was the fear for others.
It’s when you love somebody more than you love yourself that their danger frightens you.
And I had endured this fear more than once.

I have been afraid and still am afraid.

There is something about the broken;
Maybe it’s the way they live.
How they’re here,
But yet they're not.
How they wander,
Looking for someone to piece them back together,
Even if they know they'll fall apart all over again.
Maybe it’s what they've been through
Those little memories that have them all torn up inside.
It’s the hidden look in their eyes;
If you look there,
It’s almost as if you'll see everything,
Even the things you've never noticed before.

There’s just something about the broken that’s captivated me and pulled me in.

If you listen close
You'll hear her voice
Drifting in the wind.
It pulls you in,
Like a melody being sung
To a fragile baby.
It ensconced you,
Pulling you into the deep,
Dark depths and never letting you escape.
Her cries for help are silent,
Where as her cries of happiness are heard.
“I’m just another story”
Is what she tells herself
Over and over again
As she tries so hard
To hold on.
She has a story in her eyes,
And those who choose to search
Unravel the mystery that she is,
And still remains to be.

I think little by little
I'll be able to solve my problems
And survive my pain,
But that’s the thing about pain;
It demands to be felt.

And I'd like you to know the stories
That I've carved into my skin.
But I hate to live them again,
Because my thoughts
Have destroyed me more
Than blades never could.

And each night,
I put my head to my pillow,
I try to tell myself that I'm strong,
Because I've survived one more day.