On the second night you cry yourself to sleep to the sound of rain, you realise that it will always be like this — love will always hurt your kind. Because you have a heart too quick to fall, too quick to hit ground, too quick to break in shards with jagged edges that pierce your soul. Because you’re the give-it-your-all, cards on the table, heart wide open, laughter all the time type, and people, people don’t always know that you don’t have it all together.
You’re all emotions and fears and a heart that’s scarred in places and cracked in places and held together by crazy glue and happy pills. People don’t always know that, so they hurt you, even when they don’t mean to. Even when they don’t hurt you, they hurt you, because your head hurts you with the anxiety and paranoia and worst case scenarios. And you cry, and you keep crying and writing, in hope that sleep comes soon. And you try to forget who you are, why you are, why you’re hurting when he hasn’t hurt you.
The rain is coming in through the window but you don’t care. Actually, you care but you’re paralysed by the pain inside you so that you cannot get up, can’t make the effort to move the few inches and reach your hand up to slide it shut. So it beats you, on your bed, and you don’t know which has your pillow wetter, your tears or the rain.
You wish you knew how to love in bits and pieces, in off and on, and now or later. Love should be stick shift — clutch and break and change gears slowly. Not this free falling in auto mode.
Don’t forget to use your pills when you’re falling in love. You need all the help you can get then. Don’t forget to lean on your friends to break your fall. You need all the help you can get. Seriously.