Being broken also brings the ability to see the wreckage in others. I guess it's a way to use each other for support, but it is still a depressing ability. I was picking up his pieces, as he was mine. It's so much easier to clean up shattered glass that you didn't knock over yourself.
I want to live where the sun comes up. I live too much for the end of the day reflections and regrets, and not for the optimism of morning. But I suppose it makes me a better person.
I hate that I spill my guts without fail everytime I drink. Last night I talked about my eating disorder and my romantic life. Dumb ass. I don't know really what to say the next day. It's better that I don't.
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