The thing I hate the most about being a writer is how intune I am with my feelings.

My God. It just always feels like I'm bleeding.

Like I give and give even as I bleed in a puddle for everyone to step in and save me.

But they don't. They just take.

Why do I bruise easily?

Love kills me.

Eats me up and spits me out, you'd think I'd learn by now.

Love fucks me up but love knee jerks my feelings into gear.

The ones I've taught myself to repress because my mother has set a great example of.

I'm better off without intimacy.

My sensitivity breaks me.