“There’s this thing that hurts inside me all the time. Because I know what’s coming.”

Overcoming guilt, its the first step to doing it again.

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes, it’s just poetry.

I wake to find her there, with glowing eyes and tangled hair. She is my sunrise.

Her memory still lingers, like a cockroach in my heart.

True love is letting her know that her ass really does look fat in those jeans.

If there’s never been a restraining order, it ain’t love.

It wasn’t forever. But I loved her until I hated her.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.

He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.

I’m wrong but I’m real.

Break me. Until there’s nothing left and I’ll be free.

She’s no rose. But in her I see the beauty of thorns.

Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.

Failures often become art. And art can never fail.

Summer looks the same. But last summer she loved me.

And I know this world is so cold and deceiving but I keep my head up like my nose is bleeding.

They silenced her tongue, for they feared how sharp it might cut them.

Words are like weapons; they wound sometimes.

To hurt is simply an act of remembering. Of holding my skin to the edge in the hope I might feel anything at all.

I was aware of how incredible the match was. Unfortunately there had to be a winner. From my point of view many left feeling sorry for me instead of being happy for Rafa. Which hurts.

Kindness is willing to look in the face of the hurting.

It hurts my head, but it’s fine because it’s something I do every day. You can’t avoid the gymnastics questions.

Everyone claims they want the truth. Just not in all her bright entirety. We’d rather she visit in dim shades of light, that won’t hurt our eyes.