Most nights I pretend to be okay. Often like the nights you pretended you loved me. But I'm doubtful your heart aches like mine. I'm not quite something that matters. I'm not broken just merely incomplete. I tell myself you fall apart to only fall together someday. These scars will fade and make constellations that the right person will know to look for. But ****. It's not right to romanticize those who hurt us. I'm sorry I run from the smallest indication people might care. But there's no anger here. Only sadness. Broken things that can't be fixed. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm more fragile than endearing and maybe I should've warned you. But I'm stuck in this nightmare. And often I have to check to make sure my heart is still beating.