Whenever I see you. But I know that its just a one way street.
And I’m afraid to sleep because what haunts me. Such as, living with the uncertainty that I’ll never find the words to say, which would completely explain just how I’m breaking down.
You could see what your love has done to me.
Is just one huge mass of confusion, love, and heartbreak. Always has been. Always will be. And I’m not sure how to change that.
How do you mend a broken heart?
And I really need to work on bettering myself and learn how to love myself. I’m done with being depressed and unhappy all the time. I’m done with putting on a fake smile when it used to be genuine. I’m done with disrespecting myself.
Its time that I experienced love and adventure. But I mean a true, deep, sickening type of love. Not just with a mate, but with myself.
I need to show my son that his mama is a tough woman and promise to never let him see a tear roll down my cheek again. Unless, of course, tears of happiness and joy.
It really sucks when you try not to think about someone and end up having an 8 hour dream about them.
This is already looking to be the very best Christmas ever!
The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows.
Hi. I’m Sara!
I hate this. I hate you. I hate that I met you. I hate that I kissed you. I hate that I fell for you. I hate that I miss you. And I hate myself for hating you.
Random piece of information about myself: when I can’t get comfortable in bed at night, I flip around and sleep underneath my covers. Head where me feet goes and feet where my head should be. THEN I can finally sleep throughout the night comfortably.
There’s something about deleting old conversations with someone who you once cared for. It’s like deleting them from your life. Erasing all those memories you once shared, the love you once had. The happiness you once knew. And it’s painful to just press a single button and then it’s all gone. Just like that, it’s done and not coming back. All you can do is to try and remember those thoughts, feelings, words. But that too brings pain.
He once told me about his love for lyrics. How the words spoke to him like poetry.
I would often wonder about his playlist and the ghosts who lived there. The faces he saw and the voices he heard. The soundtrack to a thousand tragic endings, real or imagined.
The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in the way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings.
Now I wonder if I am one of those ghosts - if I am somewhere, drifting between those notes. I hope I am. I hope whenever my song plays, I am there, whispering in his ear.