I will spend the rest of my life angry and hurt if for nothing more than a reminder to never let myself be weak again.
I am this way because you made me this way.
You look at the past through rose colored glasses, I’d bet I was the brightest thing you’d ever seen.
When I see my past I see nothing, a black room. But I feel needles. I feel knives. I feel myself dry heaving from sobbing so hard, and screaming into the void for help.
Nobody came. Everyone left. Yet here I am. Stronger than you will ever be, more fearless than I ever was, and I’m still fucking hurt.