I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for.
I could write a fucking novel about the ache of missing you.
The thing to do is to get organized; keep separated and you will be exploited, you will be robbed, you will be killed. Get organized and you will compel the world to respect you.
Sometimes I can’t look you in the eye; you’re like a building that’s burned out inside, with the outer walls still standing.