If my life had been a musical it would have been so much easier. You never, EVER know when the fuck it’s the eleven o’clock ballad. A confusion which leads to ALWAYS living in an eleven o’clock ballad. Which is fucking exhausting. Today was filled with three episodes of panicking about the health of people I could not bear to lose. And that was in addition to stories I can’t tell. So, as usual with me … music.
And I just can’t . . . quite . . . get . . . there . . .
And maybe . . . I don’t know, it might be because . . . the pain won’t let me be and the smile I share is only there for show . . . if I hang on to this heartache then my soul will not be free . . . so I keep trying but I just cannot . . .
And, here’s the thing . . . and I suppose it’s too late . . .