I did not willingly let half of my soul leave my body. It was torn from me. I still hear the ransomed moans. It calls to me for rescue, yet clings to its abductor.

Our spirits are connected honey. Wrapped in firsts of gnarled heartache. But I promise not to let go if you don't.

... I don't know what I feel anymore, or maybe it's that I don't know HOW to feel anymore. I question every move I make, every breath I take, and every flutter of an eyelash. I've developed a twitch from always being on guard. I'm alert at night, and numb during the day, but I'm always ready. Maybe, I can intercept tragedy from striking again.

You're asking yourself if you will ever get over it. - I don't believe we ever do. Getting over something implies you floated on past the pain, blew kisses, and waved goodbye while leaping to freedom. I've never been able to jump after having the contents of my heart scattered and sewn over fields that will produce memory-laden blooms. The thing is... you get through it. But the seeds have been planted. Those memories grow. And every morning I still hear: 'He loved me. He loved me not.

What is it about those unresolved endings that cause you to question every decision when you're trying to move forward?

... And one day it dawned on me that I had spent entirely too much time waiting on you to grow a voice box.... and the balls to use it.

Promise me this. When you find yourself in need of inspiration, bypass the roses that will clamor aimlessly for attention. And focus on the souls who have actually 'lived' among the thorns.

I hurt in places that you brought back from the dead. Now I have to lay them to rest again.

Having to explain to someone how they hurt you, always feels like an ass kicking... again.