You don’t need them. It’s that simple. But for some reason it’s complex. It’s difficult. It’s dangerous. We can’t seem to fathom it.

Loving you was hard, wanting you was harder, but kissing your forehead was insanity.

Eventually I’ll stop writing about you and it’ll be bittersweet. Not because I’m not in love with you, but because I’ll just love you.

Making love with strangers is how you get hurt.

Sometimes the anxiety takes over and I can’t seem to fathom the love he gives me.

His eyes said what I cannot see.

Three years later and I’m still writing about you. I don’t know if that says more about you or I.

I’m not thankful for being fucked over, I’m thankful for what I took from it. What I learned. What I taught myself in that particular moment. I'm grateful someone was able to take me there and let me be in that moment - not with them, but with myself. How my emotions could surrender to someone and make me feel everything I felt. It destroyed me, but I made my way through; and I look back years from, and I still love him, I do.

But could words bethe end of me?