What’s wrong with me? why can’t I learn?
Falling in love is so easy…. but then, why is it so hard to fall *out of love? I’ve hurt myself so many times, I’ve had my heart shattered to the point of no return….
And yet I still love.
Why? God, why must I do this to myself? I don’t want to. I don’t want to love anymore. I can’t love anymore.
But then… what is a life without love? Why do we all feel love as such a beautiful thing, if it’s just going to end up hurting us in the end?

Tears roll down her eyes as she wrote the very words she is made of. The very words she’s feeling. It isn’t the heartbreak, although she has yet to get used to the pain. She’s been wounded; she doesn’t remember what it feels like not to be. She’s constantly beaten, and when she’s down, those closest to her make sure she never gets up.
Sighing, she looks around. Everything looks the same- the light green walls of her bedroom, her messy bed with mismatched sheets and gray-blue pillows. She turns to the right, catching glimpses of the trees and grass beneath. She’s looking, but not seeing. Her eyes are dull, as if they’ve never shone like in those pictures her mother has hanging along the walls of their too-cheery hallways.
She’s tired. Tired of being used, abused, and pretending it’s okay. She’s tired of having only words by her side- although they’ve always hurt more than they’ve healed.  She’s constantly being stabbed, the wounds visible to no one but those that have the blade.
She’s had friends- or so she thought. They had either left her, or added another scar to her collection. It seemed as if having evidence on her skin wasn’t enough for them. Or did they even know? Do they even know now? She knows people are aware; she knows how they see her. She hears the voices in her head, mocking her every single minute. Emo. Worthless. *****. Just some of many. She’s surrounded by these words, they’ve become who she is.
She’s had rare occasions when she saw light- light in her endless abyss. The light of people, people begging her, pleading for her to stay. To be someone she once was. They wanted her to be happy...Or so they said. They would say they cared, but did they really? They left, so they couldn’t possibly have.
She finally exits her thoughts for a moment to put her body in motion. She feels everything going slowly, smoothly as she walks out of her room. Her cage. Her haven. Her lifeless eyes stay glued to the floor as she barely thinks about where she’s going. She’s not wearing her sweater, or her jeans. She’s visible to everyone-to the criticism, the false sympathy. A weary sigh escapes her lips as her fingertips meet the wall, as her feet softly step on the varnished wood stairs. She feels herself slowly descending. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to hide anymore. She feels like she’s going to explode. She wants to explode.
*If they see…when they see… what will they say? Will they even say anything? Maybe they’ll finally care. Now that’s it’s too late. That always seems to be it. People always suddenly care, once it’s too late. Once the damage done is so irreversible, they can’t do anything but think in horror at what they see in front of them… Because I’m their target, just waiting to be aimed at again. I’m what’s been right in front of them, even though they’ve been too busy with their blades to notice.