The harsh reality is that you can’t love someone back to you. Life is too fragile. It swirls too much like water down the drain…
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The harsh reality is that you can't love someone back to you.
Life is too fragile. It swirls too much like water down the drain or dissipates like campfire smoke when you raise your arms and beckon for that long lost hug you still wish you would've gave
and everyone always says,
'well, that's just the way things are'
like you're not bleeding in the lobby of a hotel in New York surrounded by a shroud that hugs your spiny bones much too hard,
like you're not screaming when you smile,
like everything that grave robbed from you was just the price of doing business,
because of course we all know the only
They talk like the skyrocketing rent we pay with pain is to be expected,
like you should be happy to even be here
on a marble floor with your
head on your knees and your
shoulders just heaving
because no matter what you do, it always hurts just to breathe and see and think and be--
people walk by whispering 'just be happy, darling, just be happy'
like it never crossed your mind,
as if you could snap your fingers and make that happen,
as if what you lost never mattered
and when you tell them you forgot what their voice was like,
you try so hard but can't stop the panic,
and you're fine when those people walk away and leave you
with all the rusted-out things you managed to save
but the harsh reality, darling,
is that you'll never be the same.
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