It was only . . . a long time ago . . .

Living came easier
and harder were the mistakes . . .
or was it the other way around ?

Love was always one of those mistakes

(another after another)

Breathing is the hardest thing to do with a heart of
shattered glass

And the shards cut deeper when you try to pick up the pieces

And before you know it everybody sees you bleeding all over yourself

or is it you hope they do ?

After a long while it doesn't really matter . . . does it ?