We don’t use diaries anymore - those are meant for secrets, and we have none. We let them spill out of our bodies, and pour onto blank white sheets. We swear it’s the only way we are going to heal.
We turn our pain into poetry. Anything that hurts this much has to mean something. And even though we are desperate for anyone to listen, our language is in the letters that we will never send.
We romanticize pain like it’s the only lover we will ever know. Love is our god and we are each our own devils. Too fragile for this world, ceremoniously destroying ourselves before anyone else can do it for us. Yet we still can’t understand why we’re so broken.