It's the simplest of sentences that cause the greatest of quakes in our souls.

Like, "I love you" and, "Goodbye".

"Why did you stop trying to fix me?" she asked.

"Because, you can't glue someone back together when they won't hold still long enough to dry."

Write what you want to feel.
Write what you can't say.
Even if, at first, you don't really know what it is you're saying.
Just keep going.
Keep feeling.
Let others read your work, and see themselves in it.
Write with that beautiful and chaotic mind of yours.
The one that is tangled and complicated.
That is charming and full of soul.
Then
and only then,
when you have lost yourself among the words in your veins,
do you find the path to your heart.

If you peel her skull back,
And look inside her mind,
You will find cases filled with memories,
That she keeps labeled and organized.
There is a small one for her dreams,
That has gotten covered up with dust,
For she is always putting off herself,
For those that never cared about her musts.
Then there is another shelf half filled,
That she has labeled "The love that I learned",
And it's been being slowly emptied out,
By those that have borrowed from and never thought to return.
Then you will see one very large,
That is packed more than the rest,
It is labeled, "All that has hurt me",
And she knows every one of the titles and their context.
There is more smaller ones scattered here and there,
With faded titles and broken shelves,
But they're all hiding in the shadows of her silent self torture,
Because we convinced her that there was selfishness in loving herself.

A flood.
A torrent.
An endless pouring of doubt.
It fills.
It consumes.
It chokes and kills.
You don't see it.
But it's felt.
Inside the depths of my chest.
I'm dying.
It's strangling.
It continues to press.
I try and fail to breath
And the funniest part?
I put on a smile and make a joke.
And no one seems to see.