What we have is like a wound in my heart. It's not that I'm hurt, no. It's just too painful to keep opening and closing and opening and closing the hope. I tell myself to stop-- to know that I am just a string stretched too tightly in desperation. I've snapped. Today I let myself give up-- we would never work, you and I. Would we? I feel like every word I say is boredom to you. No, I don't think you're mean. I think you're a lovely person. This wound doesn't mean you hurt me. It means I hurt me by opening my heart too wide to things that were never mine.
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