At times, I do wish people knew the half of it. Not in a condescending or a superior sense, but beauty lies beneath our life experiences, and occasionally it would be nice to feel a truthful connection of past meets present.

He loaded the bullet and begun roulette, wrote about how I smelled like whiskey and regret. His eyes said upset while his mouth spoke, it’s time to accept.

You look for truth in the beginning, but nothing makes sense until the end.

I stopped writing in a way they would understand because it wasn’t for them or even him. It was for I to understand, for I to make sense, and for I to let go of it.

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.

I’ve spent awhile trying to figure out where I’m going and the only thing I’ve come to realize is it doesn’t matter where, it’s how I get there.