What, at first, appeared to be a personal victory, is now unfolding itself into a ridiculous, half-ass flight attempt from the emotional and mental prison I’ve been spending so many years in . Halfway over the fence and I got caught in the barbwire, ripping my own flesh to shreds…slowly dying from a broken heart…and asking myself the same old questions over and over and over again (which infuriates and scares me at the same time):
Does he still love you?
Would he even care if you were dead, and gone forever?
Does he feel as if a piece of him was missing, too?
Does he even think of you sometimes, wishing you were there?
It can’t just all be lies, can it?
No one would tell you that he loved you for six freakin’ years, if he actually didn’t.
I just want all those years to be true, although they kind of seem like an almost forgotten dream to me now.
That’s the problem: fairy tales don’t come true. It’s the horror stories and nightmares that usually take shape around you and start laughing in your face when you’re already down.